


Code Persona: Akira of the Rebellion

by kudosmoon



Category: Code Geass, Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Code Geass Fusion, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters and Relationships to be added as they appear, Crossover, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Original Character(s), Retelling of Persona 5 in the Setting of Code Geass, Sexual Harassment, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 176,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24597343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kudosmoon/pseuds/kudosmoon
Summary: The date was August 10 in the year 2010 of the Britannian Calendar. The Holy Britannian Empire had just declared war on Japan. Through the introduction of the formidable Knightmare Frame weapon, Japan was forced to surrender. The defeated nation was stripped of its independence, dignity, rights - ultimately, even its name. Area Eleven: centuries of history and culture reduced to a number.Seven years pass.  Akira Kurusu, an Eleven student, begins an experimental probationary rehabilitation at Ashford Academy. There, he discovers a mysterious cognitive world, and with it the power of 'Persona.' Through the use and spread of this power, Akira will discover that he and his cohorts have the ability to change not only the hearts of others, but the world itself.
Comments: 118
Kudos: 68





	1. Arrival

**August 1, 2017 A.T.B. - Akira**

The plexiglass wall hissed open, and Akira had turned around and placed his hands on the opposite wall before the order could even be barked. Less than a month in, and he was getting to be an old hand at prison.

Akira was unsteadied as both of his hands were pulled from the wall. There was a sharp, by now familiar pain in his shoulders as they were jerked behind his back, the black electromagnetic cuffs of his white uniform clicking together.

He had stopped resisting when the guards came in to bind his hands. In the early days he’d tried to and nearly lost a tooth on the butt of the soldier’s gun. A further show of force wasn’t really necessary, but the soldiers always liked to remind him who had the power here.

They left without so much as a word, and the way in hissed shut again. Akira kneeled and waited. Any time they bothered to cuff him it meant he was expecting a visitor.

Without much more he could do, he was drawn to listening in on his captors. They were more talkative around him than you’d expect (one could be generous and assume they thought he didn’t speak English). Of course, their talk lately was always little more than a countdown.

Nine days until the anniversary. It was apparently all the radio could talk about: the Tokyo Settlement was undergoing what had become a yearly overhaul in preparation. Speeches had to be written, marching paths had to be drawn up, security had to be tightened. There were hushed whispers that the Viceroy had planned some grand announcement. Most figured it would be another art gallery commemorating Britannian culture, but the wilder guesses went as extreme as a new major settlement in Hokkaido. And why shouldn’t people be excited? Seven years since Area 11 was welcomed into the Holy Britannian Empire. If it wasn’t a milestone, it certainly looked like one.

Of course, Akira only knew what he’d heard from his guards’ muted gossip outside his cell. These days, he heard nothing but secondhand news.

It was strange, but these last few weeks felt longer than the preceding months of arrest, arraignment, preparation for trial, trial, bid for retrial, desperate grab for a deal, retrial, and finally verdict. That had all been a whirlwind.

It had begun in March, heading home from cram school in the Namba ghetto. Vague images of a seminar on the merits of military service were overshadowed by what followed. There’d been a scream, and he’d acted foolishly, without thinking.

Older now, wiser now, he wished he could have stopped his younger self, explained to him how the world worked. Yes, he’d just got done learning all about how a good Britannian conducted himself with chivalry in all things. Yes, Osaka had been going through a crime spree the occupation force was powerless (or disinterested) to contain. Yes, the swaying and slurring man had a smaller girl pressed against his car, struggling to break free. Trouble was, none of that mattered, because some criminals worked in the government.

So when Akira had pulled the drunk from the girl, and he in turn had stumbled onto the crumbling sidewalk… well. He’d landed himself an assault charge. Worse: an Eleven attacking any kind of Britannian official - Honorary or not - could be charged with terrorism. ‘Damn brat - I’ll sue!’ hadn’t covered the half of it.

A masked patrol had rushed to the scene of what Akira still could barely believe was a crime. They and the official had spoken in English - which Akira was fluent in, but given the circumstance he had held his tongue. Seven years’ training not to talk back to Britannian occupation forces had kept him quiet, even as the official slurred lies through his teeth. He’d scowled upon hearing that his name couldn’t be completely kept out of the case that would follow (it was Masayoshi Shido, for all that that mattered) - and Akira had been dragged away to spend the night in a holding cell. He hadn’t seen Shido since, but assumed he’d gone home to a nice bed in the Osaka Settlement, and promptly forgotten about any lives he’d ruined that night.

There were finally more important things to worry about than the past. A jovial voice called out, “Alright gentlemen, you know the drill. A few moments alone with my client, if you please.” Akira wondered what would happen if they didn’t please.

But Saul Ichabod had a way with guards that Akira wished he understood. Maybe they liked his sunny deference to them, complemented well by short stature made shorter by an aged stoop. Maybe this was just how all Britannians treated each other. The guards moved one cell down in either direction, and Ichabod came into view.

Ichabod favored tailored suits and half-moon glasses (that made Akira miss his own. Everything had been blurry for weeks now). He was almost entirely bald on top, but grew the white hair on the sides of his head long. He carried a thin black cane that ended in a pale green diamond.

Always, he was accompanied by his assistant and translator, Sae Niijima. She was tall where he was short, serious where he smiled. Early twenties, maybe just out of the military, officially an Honorary Britannian. She had translated for Ichabod in Akira’s first meetings with him, until Akira and his parents had made it clear they all spoke English. Her job then appeared to have morphed into carrying Ichabod’s things, then fading into the background and casting her eyes down until needed to fetch something else.

Today, she brought Ichabod’s briefcase (red engraved katakana reading ‘Ichabod Legal - For All Empire’s Citizen’ arranged into an 11 on the side), a manila folder Akira assumed was his case file, and a folding chair. She set that up, and assumed her position by the far wall quietly.

Ichabod took his seat, smiling like an uncle who was friendly but also a stranger. He looked Akira over, “You look like you’re bearing it well enough, Akira. You have a samurai’s dignity.”

The first week or so of Akira’s trial had been chaos. His family wasn’t struggling, but also not prepared to fight a protracted legal battle with an imperial civil servant. Even less so as Shido was phased out of the prosecution’s statements, and Akira’s opponent became Britannia itself.

Enter Saul Ichabod. Akira’s case had gained traction. There had been a surreal moment where he’d heard a radio story about an Eleven in the Namba ghetto assaulting a man and his wife, and realized it had been about him. Mr. Ichabod had turned up at the Kurusu family’s apartment, explained to them that his firm specialized in representing Numbers. He’d heard about the case, and knew immediately that he’d want to work it pro bono.

So at least Akira wasn’t setting his parents back. And he was sure his case would never have gone on as long as it had (he’d even managed a second trial!) without Ichabod. He’d even managed to plead Akira’s case well enough to get the terrorism charge dropped, which might have been the only reason he was waiting for sentencing rather than for execution. If he was free publicity for the firm, that was fine.

No, not quite fine. There was a part of Akira that resented being used, even if it was for his own good. He had politely asked that part of himself to be quiet, but to no avail.

“Are they treating you well?” Ichabod asked. He gestured to Akira, “I hope they haven’t had you sat like that since I saw you last.”

A week ago; when Ichabod had hinted something might change everything soon. Akira forced a smile, “No, they just like to make sure I’m cuffed for visitors.” Without much heat, he added, “I’m a dangerous criminal, after all.”

Ichabod let out a single bark of laughter, “I’m glad you’re handling it well. Waiting is always the worst part, I know.”

No, the potential firing squad was the worst part. Maybe Akira could get another laugh by saying that.

He held it back. Gallows humor would derail things even more than the smalltalk, “Mr. Ichabod, you told me last time you were working on something…?” He didn’t want to seem desperate. He wasn’t even sure he was desperate. After all, the best they could do now was likely another trial in a higher court. But that would just be another Britannian judge seeing that a Number had attacked an Honorary Britannian. So why should the verdict ever be different?

Honestly, Akira just wanted it over.

Ichabod, though, must have thought he was anticipating continuing the fight. He adjusted his glasses in that way that people who thought they were cleverer than they were did, “Well you see, Akira, I’ve been to see the viceroy…”

Akira’s surprise must have shown on his face, as Ichabod let out another laugh, “Didn’t think meek old Saul had the connections for an audience with Prince Clovis, did you? Well, I try to keep a surprise or two up my sleeves.” For a split second, Akira thought he saw Ms. Niijima’s eyes roll upward.

And whether Ichabod wanted to affect humility or mystique, this was still a shock. Maybe even a game changer, “I just didn’t think this case would be…” ‘interesting’ didn’t sound right. Neither did ‘relevant.’ Half of what made an Area’s viceroy was their supposed care for all their subjects, even the Numbers. Even when that was demonstrably untrue, that wasn’t something you just came out and said. So Akira corrected himself, “The viceroy’s a busy man. I hear.”

“Indeed - and much of what he busies himself with is juggling the interests of the people carrying out his will. For example…” Ichabod waved that example away, “On second thought, I’ll not bore you with the internal politics of His Highness’ court.” ‘Those are of no concern to someone of your stature,’ he did not say, but Akira heard anyway.

“But indeed, your wily old Saul has some friends in high places - friends who’d leap at the chance to put Mr. Shido in his place,” something about that didn’t quite sit right. But if Ichabod was trying to keep him on the edge of his seat, he was succeeding, “With their help, I was able to bring your case before the prince - and in his benevolence, he has offered to intercede.”

Akira let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, “A royal pardon…?”

Ichabod looked at him sternly, correcting him, “A royal probation. Well intentioned or not, Akira, assault is assault. When we see injustice on the streets, we don’t just take the law into our own hands.”

Akira shifted to himself, and let Ichabod think it was physical discomfort rather than mental. Try as he might, he’d never quite been able to make Ichabod grasp that in this case, assault was _not_ assault. That he could be accused of a crime without having committed it.

He wondered what his case would have been like with a lawyer who actually believed he was innocent, not just guilty-with-caveats.

“It’s a system of rehabilitation my friends in government and I have been proposing for some time now - it could potentially revolutionize the legal practice within Area 11!” Ichabod leaned forward on his cane. Maybe he was looking at Akira, maybe at the prestige that awaited his new system’s success, “Tell me, Akira, what do you know about Ashford Academy?”

* * *

**August 4, 2017 A.T.B. - Akira**

He knew he looked good in the uniform. Black had always been Akira’s color, which was fortunate as whoever had designed Ashford’s tight slacks and collared shirts had used it almost exclusively. The trim might have had actual gold woven into it, or maybe just a nice enough facsimile. The getup was a little restrictive - in places even more so than prison coveralls had been, somehow.

But what else did he know, three steps and one shocked eternity into Ashford Academy?

He knew that the lawns were manicured green perfection, that the fountain he saw in the distance from the entryway was one of several, that there was so much empty space - more than he’d seen since he was little. That the sky was blue and cloudless, even here in the middle of the Tokyo Settlement.

Zero to sixty, way too fast. There was a vertigo to it all, going from an empty cramped cell to the expanse of Ashford Academy in just a few days. He absurdly wished he could have spent maybe one more week in the Namba ghetto. Get used to the freedom to move in grey suffocation before being dropped headfirst into this field disguised as a campus.

He knew that he’d been standing, stunned, just inside the main gates for a couple minutes too long. But there was something mesmerizing about this first view of the academy grounds, about the sun on his face and idyllic countryside transplanted into a city center.

According to the Britannian courts, he had committed assault. Akira didn’t agree that that was true, but to them it was a given. For it, he found himself enrolled at the most prestigious private schools in Area 11.

Thanks, Shido?

Other students, the various children of movers and shakers throughout the Area bustled past him. Most didn’t stop for more than a quick glance at the kid who’d turned into a statue upon entering what for them was _just school_. He heard faintly people muttering about how disappointing it was that Summer break was over, asking each other where they’d gone (the answers seemed to cover the globe).

Every now and then, someone said, “Hey, is that…?”

Or, “Wait, I thought that was just a rumor?”

And once, finally breaking the spell, a shoulder into his back, making him stumble. The other student flipped him deuces, spat, “Move it, Eleven!”

Akira, somewhat ridiculously, gave an apologetic wave, “S-sorry.”

Thankfully, the other student didn’t hear him. One of his friends, though, grunted, “Careful, man. Didn’t he like shank a soldier…?”

Akira didn’t remember doing that. Clearly an innocent misunderstanding. A part of him wanted to correct it, and maybe take back apologizing. Establish dominance. This was what he was doing instead of jail time - prison yard rules still applied, right?

Instead, he shoved down his annoyance and looked at the ground. He tried to ignore the fact that he was getting more stares, more whispers, more wild guesses about how he’d landed himself on probation.

A part of it all felt surprisingly natural. This could have been the rumor mill of any charter school for Elevens. Maybe a _touch_ more casual racism.

It wasn’t like he had time for it anyway. Akira had been told he’d be meeting with his parole officer either directly before or after his first day of classes.

It was surprisingly lenient for Britannian bureaucracy - maybe accounting for the difficulty his unusual pass card had presented him. Usually, Elevens going into the Settlements had a specific job they were going there to do. They were the maids, the construction staff, all the menial or dangerous work Britannians didn’t want to do themselves. Otherwise, they were Honorary Britannians - and so citizens of the empire, not just residents. They could go wherever they wanted within the empire and her Areas, so long as they could prove they were allowed to do so.

Akira was the first Eleven - maybe the first Number - in Britannia with a pass card that listed his reason for going to the Settlement as ‘student.’ The guard who’d screened him had thought his card an obvious forgery. He had needed to make multiple calls to higher ups before finally realizing that this Akira Kurusu was in fact the same Akira Kurusu that Prince Clovis had offered rehabilitation to.

Everything in Britannia seemed mired in forms and bureaucracy. Soldiers didn’t blink without orders, didn’t breathe without permission. How had Japan ever lost the war?

It didn’t matter - and Akira reminded himself to not even think ‘Japan’ in case he accidentally used Area 11’s old and forbidden name. He had made it into the Settlement, had made it even faster past the guards stationed outside Ashford itself (they’d barely checked him at all, except to do a double take when they saw that he was an Eleven). There was time before homeroom, it would be rude to keep his probation officer waiting all day.

For some reason, he’d pictured meeting him in a dimly lit interrogation room. Maybe a single bulb swinging over his head, the barking officer waving around a file on all the nefarious deeds of rogue do-gooder Akira Kurusu.

He didn’t know why he imagined it that way. This was a Britannian high school - they wouldn’t have a proper interrogation room. He doubted even Eleven high schools did.

Rather, he’d be meeting his parole officer in a homey, spacious office (redundant: it looked like everything would be spacious at Ashford). There was a painting of Prince Clovis, all flows and curls and roses in the corner by the fireplace. He thought for sure that the fireplace wasn’t functional. Otherwise it called into question the others he’d seen in what seemed like every room he’d passed.

Fingers steepled, his officer was an officer in truth. He wore a red-brown variation on the standard Imperial Britannian Army uniform (that meant something, but Akira couldn’t conjure up what), with a matching flat cap. Akira had seen black half-capes on officers stationed back home, though he wasn’t sure if the gold decals denoted anything or just were for show. His face was hard, lined, and he had black (vaguely purple) sideburns with a matching goatee. There was a curving scar just under his eye.

The officer did not rise, and Akira knew enough to bow. He opened his mouth to speak, but the officer did it for him, “You are Akira Kurusu, Eleven schoolboy turned one-time criminal.” He rose, but did not tell Akira to come out of his bow, so he didn’t, “And I am Sir Atlus Riegel, Captain of His Highness’ Royal Guard and your parole officer on the road to rehabilitation. You will address me as ‘Captain.’”

Down in his bow where Sir-Captain Atlus couldn’t see, Akira rolled his eyes. The smart remark was out of his mouth before he could think better of it, “Captain, may I also address you as ‘Sir?’”

Riegel either cleared his throat or laughed, “Permission granted, Kurusu. Stand up.” He put a hand on Akira’s upper arm as if to help him do so. His grip wasn’t tight, but firm enough that Akira recognized the threat. His gaze was hard.

“Akira Kurusu, you were born an Eleven. Therefore your intellect and ability will forever be hampered by your race,” Akira paid close attention to what his face was doing. He reminded the part of him that flared up in anger that this man and his reports were all that stood between him and a return to prison.  


What stung the most was how much Riegel turned it into a matter of fact. He almost sounded friendly, “That is no fault of your own: a man doesn’t choose the circumstances of their birth. What he does choose is what he makes of them. Until now, you were nothing. Even before you gave in to your worst nature and took to crime, you were nothing. In his benevolence and wisdom, His Highness the viceroy has offered you a second chance.”

Akira’s fist clenched, and he caught himself not caring if Riegel noticed. Just wait for it to be over, it doesn’t matter what you say so say nothing. Riegel smirked, “Prince Clovis has given us a noble task, you and I. He aims to show not just Area 11 but all of Britannia that given proper reeducation and training, even one such as yourself can be made into a model citizen of the empire.

“And should you complete your education here at Ashford Academy, that is what you will become: a citizen. One of the chosen few who may overcome the limits of their birth. An Honorary Britannian.”

Never in his life had Akira cared less, and he wanted to tell Riegel as much.

But he couldn’t imagine that looking good on the inevitable report of this meeting. So he crushed it down.

He had to say something, though: Riegel had stopped talking. Something was expected of him. The captain even supplied it for him, helpfully firm, “This opportunity is an unusually great honor. You should feel humbled by His Highness’ generosity.”

“I am,” Akira said automatically. As an afterthought, he made sure to add, “And thank you for taking your time on me, Captain.”

He thought the captain would like that. Riegel just made that noise that might have been a laugh, “Let me make one thing clear to you, Kurusu. This will not be easy. I will be your mentor, your confidant, and your guide on this journey - but I will think first and foremost of my duty to Britannia. If I believe this to be wasted effort, I will not hesitate to send you back to your cell.”

Riegel proceeded to reiterate things he’d already known about his schedule. Maybe it helped his ego to turn them into orders, “You and I will meet twice weekly to discuss your progress, as well as for an hour after every school day for physical training,” that sounded like hell, but Akira knew that the ordinary path to Honorary Britannian status required three years of military service. In that sense, he was getting off easy, “Assume you will always have eyes on you, and that I might bring up any choice you make throughout the week.”

Both seemed somehow unlikely. Wouldn’t he have ‘captain of the royal guards’ things to do? Was he really going to waste all of his time scrutinizing what some Eleven kid had for breakfast every morning?

These seemed like unhelpful and potentially dangerous questions, so Akira settled instead on a safe, quiet, “Yes sir.”

Riegel smiled almost warmly and patted Akira’s shoulder, “Be diligent, and you’ll do fine, Kurusu.”

“As long as I don’t forget my place,” Akira supplied darkly. Maybe that was too much. By the surprise that flashed in Riegel’s eyes, it definitely was. Maybe another quick, “Sir,” would cover it up.

“Yes. As long as you don’t forget your place,” Riegel said affably enough. Then in a blink, he hit Akira upside the head so hard he saw stars. His glasses clattered to the floor, and he stumbled back. He was more surprised at first than hurt. Even when the pain did set in, it was a dull throb.

“Pick those up,” Riegel commanded, conversational as if it hadn’t happened. Akira almost didn’t need the order, dropping to his knees, wishing he’d just worn contacts as he felt for the glasses.

He glanced up at the blurry form of Riegel. It was easy to imagine the contempt on the captain’s face. He must have liked this image - the Eleven scrounging on his knees, at the mercy of the mighty Britannian.

Akira wondered if he’d step on his hand when he reached for the glasses. In that, at least, he was merciful.

Once again, when he rose, Riegel put a hand on his arm. His smile was fatherly - a reminder that fathers could be dangerous, “Rest assured: when you forget, I will be here to remind you. Get to class.”

* * *

And so Akira went to class. What else would he have done?

The primary difference between an Ashford classroom and one from a charter school seemed to be the quality of material - polished mahogany and occasional marble replaced plastic and chipped plywood. Akira had thought everything would seem like it had never been used before, but if anything it felt older than anything from the ghetto. It was a different kind of old: Britannian classrooms felt like they were full of carefully maintained heirlooms. Eleven supplies felt like nearly ruined hand-me-downs.

Rather than individual desks, Britannian classrooms used wide tables shared by multiple students - like a lab or a university setting. Most light was natural, with wide windows letting in the day and giving everything a crisp shine. Floors were carpeted, which at first struck Akira as a completely needless expense until he remembered that this was a school for Area 11’s wealthiest. Even among Britannians, the sea of curious (and some hostile) faces looking back at him were the scions of the Area’s elite.

He hadn’t expected the formal introduction. That had always struck him as a very Japanese thing - a new student had one moment to acknowledge that their presence was changing the status quo, maybe got the chance to answer some questions, then meekly retreated to silence until the teacher called on them to speak again.

Akira knew he’d paused for too long when the teacher cleared her throat, asked again for him to make his introduction and tell the class something interesting about himself.

‘I’m Akira Kurusu, and my parents’ apartment probably doesn’t cost as much as this uniform.’

‘I’m Akira Kurusu, and just looking out at all of you, it doesn’t matter what I say because you’ve already decided what kind of person I am.’

‘ _Ore wa Kurusu Akira desu. Gyōshi o yameru, baka_.’

Someone in the back piped up, “Does he like, not speak English?”

Someone else laughed, “So he’s not just a violent criminal, he’s a stupid one?”

“I mean, what do you expect? Guy’s an-”

“Everyone, quiet!” The teacher, a Ms. McGlynn, was quick to restore order. She was maybe thirty, somewhat short and slight. Britannian impulse to obey authority overcame her less than domineering looks and the unrest of a new Eleven classmate. She looked at Akira, smiled as if she were encouraging a child. When she spoke, it was loudly and slowly, “Go on: introduce yourself.”

Whether she realized it or not, she actually thought he might not speak English. Just like always, the word of any Britannian was enough to completely color people’s perception of him.

This was all so stupid. Akira forced a smile onto his face, said quickly, “My name is Akira Kurusu. I hope we get along.”

And that was that. They didn’t want more out of him, so why should he give it? McGlynn frowned slightly - maybe she’d imagined her exotic new student could say something profound and bridge-building. She even sounded a little disappointed as she said, “Alright. Akira, why don’t you take your seat in the back there, next to Mr. Lamperouge. Lelouch, could you stand up?”

He could, and did. Lelouch Lamperouge, mercifully, hadn’t been one of the students who’d spoken out when Akira had been quiet too long. He was tall, wiry, with a pointed face and half-lidded violet eyes that made him seem perpetually bored or tired.

Lelouch resumed his seat as Akira approached, rested his head on a hand. His breathing slowed, and for a second Akira was sure he’d gone back to sleep in full view of the class. To have that kind of audacity.

Then as he sat down, he heard, “If they get to you, they win. Don’t let them.”

The words had come quick and sharp, like knife strokes. Akira wasn’t even sure he heard them after he looked back at Lelouch. Lelouch adjusted slightly, shifted on his hand to face the window. But mostly just seemed to sleep away.  
Still, it wasn’t absurd to think that someone might have had a sympathetic thought, right?

There honestly wasn’t the time to unpack what Akira’s table partner may or may not have been. Classes began, and rushed on through the day. Most of the structure was the same as it would have been in the charter schools - history was even covering the boring dynastic politics that had led to the rise of House Britannia, which Akira’s school had been covering when he was arrested.

There was perhaps a touch more detail - and maybe more propaganda as well. It wasn’t ‘Elizabeth succeeded her sister Mary,’ it was ‘Elizabeth’s succession of her sister Mary was a prototypical example of Britannian rule by the strongest that would come to define the empire and catapult her into her status as greatest among world powers.’

Akira took notes diligently, even when lessons seemed to devolve into imperial slogans. He’d been a decent student before his arrest, but nothing spectacular. But he wasn’t going to give Riegel any reason to suspect he was anything less than a model one now.

The only thing anyone else in class had to worry about was disappointing their parents. That was probably why they had time to whisper to each other about him.

“I heard he was selling drugs for the JLF.”

“No way, they’d’ve just shot him for that.”

“Think he even understands any of this?”

“Is he gonna be in chem later? Should we really be teaching him how to make explosives…?”

“We shouldn’t be letting him be here at all!”

“What does he think he’s gonna prove? He’ll always just be an Eleven.”

On and on. Eventually, he would fade into the background. Eventually, they would forget that they had to suffer the indignity of an Eleven who wasn’t a servant. This would, he hoped, burn bright but fast, like the anger each insipid remark sparked in him.

Classes finally ended, and students lingered in their seats or headed off to club activities. Beside Akira, Lelouch yawned, slid his notebook into his bag (why even take it out if he was going to sleep through the whole class?). Rising, he gave Akira a bemused smile, “Made it through your first day.”

Akira didn’t know what to say to that. He still wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined the advice (encouragement, even) the other student had given him. Lamely, he just said, “Yeah.”

Lelouch smiled, brushed past Akira on his way out. As he was going, he snapped his fingers as if remembering something, and turned on a heel to face Akira again, “I almost forgot. Come with me to the dance hall.”

Some girls gasped at that, tittering to each other. One, clearly more sensible, let out a squeaking cry of, “It’s not like that! Get your heads out of the gutter!”

If Lelouch paid them any mind, he didn’t let on. He cocked his head toward the door, made as if to leave, “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“I, uh… actually can’t?” Akira honestly wasn’t sure about any of this. Whether or not Lelouch was attempting to spirit him away for something unwholesome or sinister, something about this struck him as odd. And besides, “I have to meet with my parole officer.” It felt strange to say that like it were just a normal appointment - he’d have to get used to it.

Lelouch seemed to understand, nodding lightly. He still seemed so detached. What could be important enough that he needed to drag Akira off to tell him about it, but not so important that he actually might show that it mattered to him? With a shrug, he said, “Then come after you’re done. I’ll let them know you’ll be late.”

And then he just slunk off, the girl who’d shouted before rushing off after him. Leaving Akira alone and confused. “Them?”

* * *

The hour of physical training with Riegel had revealed two things to Akira.

First, his training was an obstacle course. It honestly looked like something out of an old war movie. Akira couldn’t imagine who had lugged out the tires that had to be jumped through, and set up the mesh wire that needed to be crawled under, and built the makeshift barricade that had to be climbed over. It was hard to picture Riegel doing any of it himself, it was far too undignified work.

Second, Akira wasn’t nearly physically fit enough for this.

He was a sweaty mess by the end of things, hunched over and panting. Hoping he didn’t throw up and completely humiliate himself. Riegel, who had adapted to playing drill sergeant ably enough, reverted back to ‘disdainful authority’ with ease, “That will have to do. I expected more, but that is likely because I’m used to dealing with soldiers.”

Akira had been sure he was going to say ‘Britannians.’ He wheezed as he tried to stand upright, wasn’t sure he would have cared. He managed a smile, bluffed, “I can keep going if you’re not satisfied, Captain.”

Riegel let out a genuine laugh, “What would you do if I said yes, Kurusu?” Die, probably. Thankfully, Riegel recognized this. Recognized that it wouldn’t look good on his report to have run the subject of Prince Clovis’ experiment completely ragged on the first day of his rehabilitation. He patted Akira’s shoulder, “No. I’ve my own business to attend to, and you no doubt have lessons to keep up with. On your way.”

Akira didn’t care that his sigh of relief amused the captain, “Thank you, sir. See you tomorrow, sir.”

Showers at Ashford were just as public as in the charter schools, the water just ran better and hotter for longer. Akira was alone, and glad for it. It was a reprieve from whispers, a chance to take stock of the day.

It wasn’t that bad. It was survivable. Rumors that he was a violent sociopath he could let bounce off him, inferences that he was intellectually and physically inferior he could ignore and overcome. None of the teachers he’d met yet were actively antagonistic. Even Riegel seemed to want him to succeed.

Akira put his forehead against the shower walls, breathed deeply. Let the hot water wash away everything that was gross and stupid about the day. He could do this.

As he toweled himself off and got dressed, he remembered Lelouch and the mysterious dance hall meeting. He wondered how rude it would be just to blow it off. Lelouch may have been his only ally among the student body, but Akira also might have entirely imagined that. Surely he could just go find out where he was supposed to be sleeping and crash there, right?

Crowds cleared for him, which Akira was quickly deciding was more convenient than annoying. He could easily see the hushed tones that took over whenever he came on the scene fading into the background for him. It might make asking for directions difficult, wherever he ended up going. Why did Britannians build such wide, open spaces for everyone to get lost in?

“Hey, you’re Akira Kurusu, right?”

He was, but people usually didn’t come out and ask him like that. It merited a response, so he turned, and was greeted by the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life.

She was blonde, her hair gathered into two girlish pigtails, framing a heart shaped, blemish-less face. The cream-yellow jacket of her uniform seemed like it might have been a touch too small - or she was just proportioned exactly right to fill it tightly. Her uniform also helpfully demonstrated how long and shapely her legs were, and Akira was increasingly aware that there was nowhere he could look at her without feeling like he was ogling.

So he settled on her eyes. They were blue, bright - and now that he thought of it, shaped more like his own than any Britannian he’d ever met. That raised its own questions.

As, apparently, did his silence. The girl quirked an eyebrow, her smile maybe a touch more knowing than it had been a moment ago, “You okay?”

Despite his better efforts, Akira was staring. And realizing that, now he was blushing - this just got worse and worse. He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses with what he assured himself was cool composure. His voice came out at a lower, breezy register he hadn’t consciously adopted, “I’m good. Sorry. And yeah, I’m Kurusu… uh?”

He rubbed the back of his head, gestured to the girl that she had him at a disadvantage. She smiled brightly, “Oh! I’m-”

“Ann- _chan_!” the voice rang out abrupt, booming, and right next to Akira’s ear. Or above: a musclebound giant who was pointedly ignoring Akira for the girl stood head and shoulders above him. His square jaw and a broad chest put Akira in the mind of a superhero - and his use of honorifics and his almond shaped eyes made him wonder what another Eleven (a _third_ Eleven?) was doing at Ashford.

He startled the girl too - Ann, Akira supposed. She looked away, fidgeted with her short skirt, “Hello, Kamoshida-sensei.” Maybe he was imagining the apprehension in her voice.

The giant certainly didn’t hear it. He stepped in between the two in such a way that Akira had to give some ground, hands on his hips. More playful than stern, he said, “We missed you in class today - off at another shoot?”

“Uh… yeah,” she gave Kamoshida a nervous, apologetic look. Something twitched in Akira’s mind. Was she trying to shrink down? “My agency rescheduled at the last second. Sorry-”

Kamoshida waved off her apology, seeming too magnanimous for the moment, “Don’t worry about it. You’re the last one in that class I’m worried about,” he sidled closer to her, placed a hand just above the small of her back. Ann visibly stiffened. “Just next time, give me a call so I know you’re not coming.”

Akira spoke up before he thought better of it, the words mushing together, “Excuse me, _sensei_ , I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Akira Kurusu.”

His rehabilitation was working. With Shido, he’d resorted to getting physical - now he was only intervening with words. A few more months, and he’d progress all the way to ignoring creeps.

Unless Kamoshida killed him with that glare first. He did remove himself from Ann, did shake his hand. Crushed it, really, though his voice was friendly enough, “Ah, the convict Prince Clovis pardoned.” He switched to Japanese - apparently, the only part that he cared that Ann heard was the reminder that Akira was a criminal, “I’m Kamoshida Suguru. I teach Japanese and coach Ashford’s volleyball team.”

He looked over Akira, appraising the boy’s comparatively weedy and frail body. It was way too territorial looking, as was his condescending smirk, “So I imagine I won’t be seeing much of you, Kurusu- _kun_.”

“I hope not,” someone else said with Akira’s mouth. Ann snorted in surprise, which Akira realized with a start meant she’d understood it. At Kamoshida’s shocked expression, he put on a plastic smile, “I mean, I’m really gonna be in trouble if Japanese is what I’m struggling with.”

Kamoshida smiled in a way that made Akira wonder if he was going to get hit again. He returned to English with a wink at Ann, “Now Ann-chan, I hope I haven’t just caught you sneaking around with our new transfer?”

“No!” she said a little too quickly. Was she defending him? “I just ran into him on my way in-”

Kamoshida laughed, patted her back again, “I’m kidding, Ann- _chan_.” He leaned in, whispered just loud enough for Akira to hear, “Just be careful with him. Remember he was convicted of assault. I’d hate for you to get hurt.”

Then he straightened, smiled like he’d won - like there had been something to win, “Well, it was good to meet you, Kurusu- _kun_. And always a pleasure to see you, Ann- _chan_ \- will I be missing you for any more classes soon?”

“Probably not,” she said flatly.

“Wonderful. Well then - _ja ne_!” And then he just strode off like he owned the place. He’d stop to greet some of the students, and was received like a god. It was surreal - frankly, it went against everything Akira had experienced today himself. Kamoshida always seemed to be ‘coach’ or even ‘ _sensei_.’ Akira had had to struggle just to get something other than ‘Eleven.’

In what insane universe was another Eleven getting such adoration from his Britannian students? Especially one with his head so obviously and so far up his own ass?

Ann and Akira exchanged a look. She rolled her eyes in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture, spoke up with forced pep, “As I was saying, I’m Ann Takamäki.”

“And I’m Akira Kurusu.”

She smiled slightly, “You said that.”

Deadpan, “Yeah, but I figured maybe it got lost in… well, whatever _that_ was.”

“Oh, don’t worry about _that_ …” Akira wasn’t convinced, but Ann pressed on, “Kamoshida’s…” she looked for the right word.

Akira supplied it, “A creep?”

“No! I mean yeah, but…” she rolled her eyes, smiled reassuringly, “He’s harmless. Mostly. An Honorary Britannian can’t get away with-“ she waved that away, “Don’t worry about it.”

“You said that.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t take.” Ann plastered on a smile that was supposed to show how okay everything was. With her forced breezy tone, it was almost convincing, “But seriously. Thanks for stepping in, but I can deal with Kamoshida.”

It wasn’t satisfying, no matter how much she wanted it to be. A part of him wanted to tell her that to her face. But he could take a hint. Sometimes you weren’t ready to unload all your troubles on a stranger - even one so dashing as Akira. So a new question. “You speak Japanese?” he asked in that language. She smirked, held her thumb and finger an inch from each other. He looked where Kamoshida had gone, “He must be a pretty good teacher.”

Ann rolled her eyes, replied in Japanese, “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Honestly, I’d rather not.”

She snorted again, which Akira was quickly deciding was absolutely adorable and that he’d love to hear more often, “Then you don’t have to - I didn’t exactly learn it from him.”

Akira was about to ask what that meant - and maybe confirm his hunch - when he noticed the looks they were getting from other students in the courtyard. There was nothing too openly hostile - it must’ve been easier for them to accept him when he was with one of their own.

Or that could go the other way - he thought he heard someone whisper, “What’s she doing talking to the Eleven?”

And of all things, his first instinct was to just turn around and leave her there. Ann seemed nice enough, why drag her name through the mud his was mired in?

She noticed too, though, and returned to English with another awkward smile, “It looks like we’re attracting a crowd. Maybe we take this back to the dance hall?”

Akira blinked, suddenly thrown. What was with Britannians and this dance hall? Was it just some idiom that didn’t translate?

Had he been propositioned twice on his first day?

The very idea made him blush.

Which in turn confused Ann, “Uh, you okay?” Her eyes widened, “Wait, did Lelouch not tell you?”

And she knew Lelouch. That made it a conspiracy. Play it cool, “Tell me what?”

Ann rolled her eyes in frustration Akira couldn’t even begin to grasp, took his hand, marched off, “Come with me. I can’t believe that slacker!”

And he could but follow, “Tell me what?!”

* * *

The dance hall was an actual building. That was a surprisingly huge relief. It was still gaudy and overwhelming the same way everywhere had been today - maybe even more so. Just in its entrance, he counted maybe two of his parents’ apartments, stacked on top of each other, on either side of the gilded marble staircases. The ceiling was a vertigo trap - it should have had some kind of celestial painting, though the sparkling crystal chandelier would more than do in a pinch. This was the sort of room you held a ball in, and proceeded to invite everyone who was everyone not just from Area 11, but from throughout the Empire.

Or it was just where Ashford’s dance team learned to waltz correctly.

He was staring. Ann was catching him staring. He quickly adjusted his glasses as if they were to blame for how star struck he was by another of the lavish displays of wealth she must’ve thought were normal, “Nice place.”

“It’s pretty cool,” she agreed, her voice echoing in the quiet, “The dance team fell apart after all the seniors graduated, so-”

A shrill voice called out, hidden somewhere at the top of the stairs, “Ann! Don’t give the game away!”

“Whoops!” Ann giggled, rolling her eyes in amusement Akira wished he understood, “I mean, ‘oh, there’s nothing surprising in here, no sirreebob!’” She put a hand to the side of her face, called up to the landing above, “Guys, he’s here!”

And then what happened next started.

First, a girl sprang up, hidden behind a table. Faintly, Akira registered that she was that orange-haired girl from his class, even as she squatted down, her hands forming a ‘V’ over her white and red headband, “Ko!”

To either side of the table, a boy rolled out. One was Lelouch, the other a short, slight boy with messy blue hair. They mirrored each other, their arms shooting out to either side of the image like they were a pair of wings. They called out in quick succession, “Ni!” “Chi!”

At which point a blonde girl positively twirled out from behind the table. Her headband clearly depicted a rising sun, which struck Akira as bold. She threw her head back, winked at Akira, gave what might have been finger guns, then straightened out into a one-legged T pose, palms out to either side, “Wa!”

Then as one, they called out, “ _Konnichiwa_!” and confetti burst out from behind the table.

And then they just held that pose.

After a few seconds, it occurred to Akira that that - whatever that was - had indeed just happened.

He looked over at Ann. Maybe she knew how he was supposed to even feel about this. She was visibly shaking, trying not to burst out laughing. Akira asked, cautiously, “Do… do I clap?” and she broke, doubling over in hysterics.

Which left him all alone. He raised a hand, waved awkwardly, “Uh, hello.”

“Hello!” The blonde girl was the first to break formation, the others following suit with varying degrees of embarrassment. She bounded off the table, pointing down as she passed, “Rivalz, can you look at streamer two? I don’t think it ever went off,” before practically flying down the stairs to take Akira’s hand, “Milly Ashford, student council president, and let me tell you it is an absolute honor!”

Akira realized he wasn’t shaking her hand back, and amended that on the last few pumps. He was still so weirded out, “Uh, Akira Kurusu. Student. Likewise?” He looked back up at the others, “So… you’re all the student council, then?” 

A surprised gasp from the table, the redhead leaning over the railing indignantly, “Ann! You didn’t even tell him??” There was a little dead air as Ann tried and failed to stop giggling, “Oh come on, it wasn’t that funny!”

Gasping for breath, Ann managed, “Oh my god it sooo was!” She picked herself up, adding, “And don’t blame me - it was Lulu’s job to tell him!”

“Tell me what?” Akira asked again. As much to get it on record that he was still in the dark as anything else.

Lelouch rubbed the back of his neck, looking more annoyed than abashed, “Milly wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Which it was,” Akira said helpfully, “Gotta say, whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t that.” That or the situation in general got another snort out of Ann, which Akira decided to take as a win. More confetti flared up, presumably from streamer two, so it must’ve been.

Milly took his hand again, turned his face to hers - it struck Akira as a little too intimate, but he found he didn’t mind much, “Akira, I know you’ve probably been too busy with… other things to look too closely at your student handbook,” why did she have to make ‘other things’ sound so suggestive? At least she wasn’t emphasizing what they _actually_ were. He’d been reminded of his probation maybe fifty times too many today, “… so you probably don’t know that every Ashford student is required to be in an after school club.”

He hadn’t known that. And it had just clicked with him that Milly’s last name was the same as the Academy’s. Akira opened his mouth, but she bowled over him, “So I was thinking that because of your _situation_ , it might be hard for you to join any of the clubs.” Winking again, she said, “So I’ve decided to shanghai you into the student council.”

At first, Akira wanted to object - some repressed part of him that didn’t want to do whatever he was being told to. Then after a second, he realized with a start that this was in fact a nice thing. He blinked, tested out, “Oh… thank you.” And he found he even meant it.

Milly grinned, “Oh, don’t thank me yet - I’m gonna put you to work!”

“Get out while you can,” Lelouch quipped, deadpan.

“VPs go shush!” she shouted up at him. He saluted dutifully, zipped his lips. Satisfied, Milly threw an arm over Akira’s shoulder, gestured broadly out one of the hall’s enormous back windows. She seemed to see some kind of better future out in those rolling hills, dotted with what must have been the equestrian club hard at work. Ashford was rich enough for an equestrian club, how was Akira here. Milly gushed, “I’ve got to be honest with you, Akira: I’m a dreamer. I get visions, I’m prompted by some unholy muse to turn fantasy into reality. To make the impossible possible!”

She was twirling away again - how wasn’t this girl in the drama club. Or the empress. She threw up her hands, a grand gesture to encompass all the dance hall, “And for that, I need Ashford’s best and brightest! Team! Roll call!”

There was a beat, and Lelouch looked around before smirking, “I’m allowed to speak again? Lelouch Lamperouge, vice president.” He smiled wanly, “Sorry Akira, I seem to have got you stuck with us.”

“Hey, Madame Prez said VPs go shush!” the bluenette boy jeered, bounding over and throwing Lelouch into a headlock. He gave a peace sign to Akira as the other boy struggled in vain to get free, “I’m Rivalz Cardemonde - council secretary and I guess confetti manager now?”

“I’m Shirley!” the redhead girl beamed, swinging her legs over the table and off the makeshift balcony it created, “Great to have you with us, Akira!”

At a stage whisper, Milly added, “The lovely Ms. Fenette’s our Minister of Eye Candy, as you no doubt have noticed.”

Shirley gasped, flailed in a way that made Akira nervous she’d topple overboard, “Madame President!!!”

Madame President was undeterred, swiveling to present Ann, “And you already met our resident E.U. Ambassador, Ms. Takamäki?”

Ann’s smile was embarrassed, but encouraging. She looked around, quirked an eyebrow, “Nina didn’t end up making it?”

Milly rolled her eyes, “‘Busy with work.’” 

Ann’s eyebrows shot up, and she nodded in understanding, “Ah. Of course.”

At first that didn’t click, then it did. Akira asked, “I’m not…” he rephrased, “I hope it’s not too much of a bother for me to…?”

“Of course not. You’re not getting out of this that easy!” Milly grinned, “I’ve wanted to shake up and diversify this council for a while now. Never had the student body to do it until now.”

There were so many things that Akira wanted to say to that, but he felt like all of them would start a fight. And for the first time today, he found that he didn’t - even secretly - want one.

* * *

It turned out that whatever Milly might have said, the student council didn’t have a lot of actual responsibilities. Mostly, their job was to fill out forms and secure funding and support for whatever Ashford’s upcoming events might have been. There weren’t any at the moment, and so meetings apparently amounted to quizzing Akira on how he was liking the academy so far - how it compared to home, what his life had been like before it had turned on its head. Akira carefully rinsed and sanitized his answers before showing them off, and the process went easily enough.

The sun had gone down by the time they broke for the evening. Rivalz took off - something about a new job to get to - around the same time that Shirley and Ann headed back to the dorms. Milly, having lost half her council, took her leave not long afterward.

Akira took the moment to take in the night.

There was even somehow less light pollution here - it didn’t seem possible, with the Settlement looming just over the edges of Ashford’s walls. Akira looked up at the first starry sky he’d seen in years, breathed deep.

“Better get some rest,” Lelouch noted, idling up beside Akira. Like anyone used to living here, he took what was above him for granted, “Busy day tomorrow - Milly will want to continue your interrogation.”

Akira laughed, thinking of the grillings leading up to his trial, “I should be able to manage.”

“Maybe.” Lelouch sounded like he doubted it. He leaned on a window, a light breeze catching his bangs, “You shouldn’t have to, though.”

Akira looked at him, once again not sure he’d heard him right. Or perhaps he’d just misinterpreted - but would it be so impossible for someone to empathize with his situation?

He leaned beside Lelouch, one looking towards heaven, the other towards earth. Neither seemed to find anything there, and so Akira concluded lightly, “You can’t change the world.”

“No,” Lelouch murmured, “You can’t.” He glanced over at Akira, “Wouldn’t you, though?”

_In a heartbeat_ , Akira did not say, but could have sworn he heard. 

For himself, what could he say? The question was unfair, and he wished he could just cut loose and scream why. Lelouch was _Britannian_ , and no matter how much he might have wanted a world that was different, the world that they _had_ was one where Britannians were allowed, within reason, to question the status quo.

If an Eleven ever did… the best Akira could hope for was that he'd only be ignored.

So he said nothing instead. Hoped that maybe the way his brow furrowed spoke for him.

By Lelouch’s sad smile, it did, “Fair enough.” He straightened, hands going casually to pockets as he headed down the stairs to the main floor, “You’ll want to settle in.”

The heavy moment evaporated - thank god - and practicality reasserted itself, “Hey, where am I actually going?” Akira made a slight show of looking this way and that, “I don’t actually know where the dorms are.”

“Hm?” Lelouch raised an eyebrow, abruptly smacked his forehead, “Right. I didn’t tell you - you’re not staying in the dorms. You’ll be staying here.”

“In… in the dance hall?” This was a hazing ritual. The joke was on Lelouch, this hall was already nicer than any building Akira could remember being in, he’d take it gladly.

But he was so earnest about it, “Yeah - there’s a couple of guest rooms here. My sister and I-”

“Lelouch!” The voice was small, fragile - like a baby bird. 

That was also Akira’s first impression of the girl it belonged to. Waves of light brown hair only made her seem more diminutive than she looked at a glance - as did the massive ornate wheelchair she sat in. She was slight, pointed in the same ways Lelouch was. Akira bet if she opened her eyes, they’d be his same violet too.

For his part, Lelouch positively lit up when she entered the room, starting down the stairs to where the girl waited as if Akira weren’t there, “I was wondering when you were getting back, Nunnally.” He went to a knee to get on her level as he approached. It put Akira in the mind of a knight before his liege. Taking her hand, Lelouch commented, “Sayoko kept you out pretty late.”

Sayoko. At first, Akira hadn’t even noticed the Eleven maid. That must have been the skill of a good servant. She murmured an apology, stepped back from the girl’s chair, gave the two their space. Akira wondered if he should do the same.

The girl chirped, “It’s such a nice evening - I wanted to stay out even longer.”

“As long as you’re being safe,” Lelouch said, ruffling her hair. He’d snapped from aloof to doting so quickly. 

“Yes papa,” she teased. Looking - well, no, it couldn’t have been looking. But she seemed to know where Akira was, and tilted her head towards him, helpfully asked, “Are you going to introduce me to Akira?”

She already knew his name and somehow where he was without sight. That was more than a little spooky. Akira was glad it startled Lelouch too - or maybe he was just remembering that Akira was there. He had the decency to look embarrassed, clearing his throat, “Akira, this is my sister Nunnally. Nunnally, Akira Kurusu.”

Stupidly, he raised his hand in greeting - a second later amending that to a spoken, “Hello.”

Nunnally wheeled forward, asked, “Did Lelouch tell you that we’d be housemates for your time at Ashford?”

“I was getting to it!” Lelouch protested, cool facade shattered. He rushed to repair it, brushing hair from his eyes as he looked to Akira, “The Academy was worried that you might not fit in well at the dorms, so they decided to put you up with us.”

‘The Academy was worried that they might be putting a dangerous criminal among all the little Britannian munchkins. Or that some of those munchkins might want to stomp on the face of a jumped up Eleven.’

It made sense. And Akira knew he was going to have to get used to this sting he felt whenever he was told there was yet another somewhere he didn’t belong. But there it was.

“Our food is better than what they have at the dorms anyway!” Nunnally reassured him. She steepled her fingers, called back playfully to the maid, “Sayoko promised she’d make her family’s curry recipe tonight - do you like curry, Akira?”

“I…” he smiled. This girl was disarming, “I always figured everyone likes curry. Except maybe monsters.”

She giggled, “Oh, we’ll get along, I can tell!” Somehow, she once again wheeled herself so she was facing her next target: Lelouch again, “Lelouch, make sure you help Akira get used to the academy. He’s our guest now!”

Lelouch laughed, bowed, “Of course, Your Highness.” He smirked up at Akira, and something in his eyes told Akira that he’d passed some kind of test.

All he could do was smile back - grateful and embarrassed for how grateful he was. How strange it was, this little pocket of welcome in a school (a country, a world) that had made it clear it was not his own.

* * *

Akira’s bed was going to ruin all of his expectations for comfort going forward in life. Or he was just that tired. Nothing had felt so exhausting during the actual day - except maybe Riegel’s drilling. Still, Akira found himself letting out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

It had all been a lot, and that was the gentlest way to put it.

When his head hit the pillow, he thought that would be the end of it, but some kind of preternatural instinct had put his phone back in front of his face. The harsh glow reminded him that he had classes tomorrow (which was obvious) and that after that he had more physical training (which was cruel). 

No news from his parents. A part of him wanted to let them know the first day had gone well - but it was just the first day. Why try and get them to share in an accomplishment which really wasn’t an accomplishment at all?

What would he say, ‘Excellent news, have not died in a hate crime yet. Will update tomorrow - or not?’

Maybe, if he ever wanted to give his mother a heart attack. Since he didn’t, he instead went with a quick stream of consciousness, ’Day one complete. Everything’s hard, but I should be fine. I’m apparently on the student council? Love you.’ He hit send before he could think of a reason not to.

Akira had resolved to not check his phone forever and to get some sleep when he’d laid down. That resolve shattered the moment it was in his hand. Halfheartedly, he swiped through his apps, trying to find a distraction from thoughts that wouldn’t stop swirling.

A red eye glared at him from the last page, black irises pulsing furiously.

That was certainly a distraction.

It had no name - Akira wondered if it was a bug Riegel had placed in his phone. He hadn’t been told that he’d be bugged, but he wouldn’t be, right?

Would a bug be so obvious?

He clicked on it to see - it started to load.

Then kept loading.

And loading.

And though he only waited maybe three minutes, it felt enough like an eternity that he shrugged to himself, tried to delete it. 

There it went - not a bug, then. Britannia would build them more resilient. 

Akira tossed his phone to the side, and laid back letting sleep take him.

He felt himself sinking into his bed, down into sleep. Down further, further. Until his eyes opened, and he saw a cold grey ceiling.

He did not fully snap to alertness until he heard an impossibly deep voice purr, “Trickster: welcome to my Velvet Room.”


	2. Survival of the Fittest

**August 5, 2017 A.T.B. - Goro**

Goro wanted to yawn so badly, but didn’t dare. Somewhere in the distance, a bell sounded five times. Even in the middle of summer, 5 A.M. was an absurdly chilly and all around ungodly time to be up. Goro almost had to ask himself what he had been doing for the last hour then.

The answer of course was next to nothing. Sendai Base high command had ordered that the 15th Honorary Auxiliary be geared up and ready to march at four, and so they were. They had then left them at parade rest for an hour.

To Goro’s left, Togo shivered. Out of the corner of his mouth, he teased, “That’s a lashing - better not let Epcar see.”

He felt her make a face at him, about as much a rise as anyone could get out of Togo. Beside her, Tatsumi was less generous, muttering, “Up yours, Akechi.” The white knight to the rescue. Goro let a breath out his nose, which would do duty for a chuckle until there was a little more room for expression. 

It had been less than a month since the 15th was put to the field, and the draconian schedule was already managing to take its toll on morale. Basic training hadn’t quite prepped most of them for a nightly average of two or three hours of sleep, seemingly endless drills, and then combat. Goro was lucky - he’d weaned himself off needing much sleep young. Even he was beginning to wear down, though.

And in some ways, he understood that that was the point. In these early days, they were still weeding out those who still thought this was a free ride. He highly doubted that just about anyone here was fully intent on serving king and country. They saw the dangled bait of honorary citizenship at the end of three years of military service, and grabbed with both hands without regard to what could happen in a thousand days.

Goro couldn’t talk: he’d grabbed too. But he’d been more prepared for what he was actually getting into in a way he suspected no one else could have been.

“Ten-shun!” The order came, and the 15th moved as one to obey. Major Darwin Epcar stalked the lines of his unit. He cut an imposing figure - he had a full head on his soldiers, and was twice as wide across. He didn’t have concrete evidence, but Goro was sure that was a choice: let the would-be Honorary Britannians see what massive, square-jawed supermen their betters were.

If Epcar was a propaganda piece, then his burns were a part of it. His chiseled face was torn on the left side, a mangled black left cosmetically untreated as a badge of honor. As he’d tell anyone who gave him an excuse, he’d been caught in an Eleven IED shortly after occupation (“That killed six lesser men!”).

He was quiet now - bluster would only detract from his chance to catch someone slouching. Or maybe he was drinking in whatever grand victory he was going to paint for his unit.

“Today…” at a word, Goro knew it would be the latter. Epcar put too much weight into it for it to be anything else, “Today is the last day of an eternity.”

That was almost clever. “‘Yamato Eternal,’ they call themselves.” Epcar was never going to give the 15th more information on who they were fighting than that. Goro happened to have more from his own sources. YE had been a subgroup of the Japanese Liberation Front, until a recent falling out between them and Kyoto. They were ultra-nationalists, opposed to even disingenuous cooperation with Britannia. All of which mattered if you were trying to sabotage their image for, say, another faction of Japanese ultra-nationalists.

And none of which mattered if you were a good Britannian soldier. Which was definitively the camp that Epcar fell into, roaring, “A grandiose name for another roving band of savages looking to drag Area 11 back into barbarism! I stand before you today, soldiers of the 15th Honorary Auxiliary, to tell you - to promise you - that they shall not!”

Epcar never got the cheers he wanted on his first declaration. It was never clear that that was what he wanted until a few seconds after he paused for a reaction, and by then it would have felt false. Goro knew a few public speakers he could recommend to the major - would that earn him a promotion or a flogging?

“The rats have holed up in their ghetto - they’re hoping they can survive a last stand after we beat them back from the Settlement.” Or their leader had abruptly seized upon an insane set of tactics, and his men had followed him blindly into a trap, “Cowards all, they’ve seized a hospital, fortified it against the titan of Britannia’s wrath. They think it will keep them safe, that we will pause in enacting our justice against them. Are they correct, soldiers of the 15th?”

The chorus came in well-practiced unison, “No, My Lord!”

As far as Goro knew, Epcar had no lordship to speak of. He’d never corrected his unit, though, “No? Then you intend to fight in our beloved emperor’s name, to purge these traitors from their hiding holes?”

“Yes, My Lord!”

“And you will follow any order, vanquish any foe, achieve any impossibility, for your beloved Britannia? You will overcome the inequities of your birth and be reborn through blood and fire as citizens of the greatest empire this world has ever known?!”

“Yes, My Lord!”

He wanted them louder, more raucous. Then he should have written a more inspiring speech. Still, the major held out his hands for quiet he already had, “It does my heart good to hear as much. You all know that I have bled for our empire,” yes, they did, “And so I am proud that you all would do the same. Follow my command, soldiers of the 15th. I will lead you to greater things than you could have dreamed of - and together, we shall march our empire ever further on the road of progress! All hail Britannia!!!”

There was never a time when an officer shouted “All hail Britannia!” where the right response was not “All hail Britannia!” You didn’t need to be a soldier to know that. And so the 15th chorused it for Epcar once again.

And again.

And again.

Until he believed their fervor. Goro wondered if any of it was more than just words on anyone else’s lips. He certainly didn’t feel anything.

Epcar swelled with pride nonetheless. Goro honestly wasn’t sure if he was just a massive block of a fool who didn’t understand when he was being condescended to. Or perhaps he relished his power to make a crowd of Elevens say whatever he wanted to, just by providing the right input.

He blustered well into the morning, and Goro had to commend the rest of his unit on their patience. They all had the same statue’s rigidity that the military called for, and no one broke or even slagged even as the platitudes carried on and on into what felt like hours. Maybe everyone left by now would make it after all.

Assuming they lived, of course.

The 15th was dismissed into their morning drills. Formation training was largely ceremonial - battle hadn’t relied so strictly on columns and lines since long before knightmare frames were introduced during the Invasion. After, gathering soldiers into a neat clump became a good way to get a lot of them blown to bits at once - which was rarely Britannia’s intention with its auxiliaries. There would always be a need for ceremony and discipline, however.

Goro knew all that, and so he ignored to the best of his ability the child in the back of his mind whining that they could be doing something so much more useful than marching right now. _He_ didn’t need more time on the shooting range, but he could think of several throughout his unit who did.

He knew the 15th was about to set out because command was feeding them. Britannian military rations were supposed to be the best in the world. Goro didn’t know if honorary units got the same rations as the rest of the military. If they did, what did that say about Europe and China? No one looked at the grey-brown sludge they were served. Goro did wonder whose cat it had been, though.

Conversation stayed low in the mess hall - no matter where they were, sometimes talking to one another felt like some act of rebellion. He sat beside Togo and wolfed down his rations in two quick bites so he wouldn’t have to taste them. 

She was slower - visibly taking a moment before they set out, eyes closed, lips moving silently. Goro wondered if she was praying or planning ahead. He elbowed her lightly, painted on a devil-may-care smile, “Hey. You’ve got this.” She also had his back, so whatever nerves she had she needed to get over in a hurry.

Her own smile back was so demure that not for the first time Goro wondered what Hifumi Togo was even doing in the military. Someone had put her together in the same place that they used to make the graceful Japanese nobility. Small of shoulders, tall of stature, forest eyes downcast. Her once long black hair was growing back after basic had callously shaved it off. Britannia was much more strict about that kind of uniformity in training than in the field. Still, she couldn’t have been doing anything with it - and so an absurd part of Goro wanted to know how she kept it so silky and straight.

She quirked a perfect eyebrow, and Goro realized he’d considered her for too long, and was officially staring. He played his part, smiling sheepishly as if caught, “And besides, you’ve obviously got us watching out for you.”

“Make sure she’s not the only one you’re looking out for, Goro.”

As usual, Suzaku Kururugi was altogether too familiar. 

Like Togo, Kururugi belonged on a recruitment poster, but for different reasons. Slightly curly brown hair stopped precisely where basic’s regulations had dictated. He had been straight-backed and decently muscled before going into the military, and was only more so now. He could have been intimidating if his eyes weren’t so earnest. You could tell at a glance, Kururugi believed in you. No matter what it was you were trying to make of yourself, he thought you could do it and he was going to help.

Sometimes, Goro wanted to smack that look right off Kururugi’s face.

He settled in across from them, giving Togo a reassuring nod, “You don’t have anything to worry about, Hifumi.” Again with the first name basis.

Togo didn’t seem to mind. She was almost too quiet to hear beside the other tables in the mess hall, but Goro managed, “It’s nothing, really.” She shrugged off exactly how nothing it was, “I’m only trying to remember the last time I was in a hospital - what the general layout was.” There was some hint of mischief on her face as she added, “If I were trying to fortify one, how would I do it?”

Goro smiled brightly for the two, “And that’s our Togo - already three steps into her plan before we so much as arrive.”

“I mean, I’m sure command has a plan of attack,” of course Kururugi would be, “They wouldn’t be sending us in without one.”

Throw as many Eleven bodies at the problem as they had to before they could overwhelm it. Make sure the soldiers blowing up a hospital were Elevens so that Britannia could deny any part in it. That was the plan, and Kururugi was naïve if he couldn’t see it.

Goro could even convey some of that, breezily noting, “I don’t know - would it be so surprising if it turned out the higher ups didn’t know what they were doing?”

Kururugi smirked, tsked, “Now that just sounds like treason, Goro.”

“Better not let Epcar hear,” Togo added helpfully, “You’d be lucky to get just a lashing.”

Goro laughed, “More like a firing squad.”

That didn’t kill the others’ good humor, but it did dampen it. Kururugi was gentle as he said, “Well then it’s a good thing Hifumi and I can keep a secret.”

“And now I have accomplices,” Goro shook his head in mock despair, “To think I could drag you both so low.”

“One of us is fishing for compliments, Goro,” Kururugi even chided with a smile.

He winked, “Then would it be such a crime to bite, Kururugi?”

Kururugi only laughed. It had mostly been a joke, so that was alright. Togo nudged him playfully, teased, “Play a little harder to get, Akechi- _kun_.”

Kururugi clicked his tongue, suddenly a touch sterner, “Honorific, Hifumi.”

She gasped as if he told her she’d just cussed out the emperor, “Shoot.”

Britannia policed Numbers’ language on a multitude of fronts, but in the military there were essentially only two rules. First, speak English. Second, speak it like a Britannian would. Togo had the same problem of overfamiliarity that Kururugi did, but it manifested differently. When she was with other Elevens, sometimes she slipped just slightly into Japanese.

Which only Elevens spoke when they could help it. And they weren’t supposed to be Elevens anymore. They were honorary Britannians - and Britannians didn’t use honorifics.

One day, she was going to call Epcar ‘Epcar- _sama_ ,’ and he was going to paint her back red for it.

In the meantime, he was only going to bark, “Private Kururugi!”

Kururugi dutifully shot to attention, calling out, “Yes, My Lord!”

Major Epcar had a habit of getting directly in your face when he doled out orders - and to make them as public as possible. He was big enough that it often meant he had to stoop to shout in your ear. Kururugi didn’t so much as tense, which was admirable, “Private Kururugi, are you Britannia’s, body and soul?”

“Yes, My Lord!” What other answer could one expect?

“Are you prepared to kill these monkeys - your former countrymen - who resist Britannia’s loving embrace?”

Kururugi’s eyes narrowed only slightly. Goro doubted anyone else noticed, “Yes, My Lord!”

“And are you prepared to lead your fellows on the road to redemption, to give them whatever steps they need to accomplish the mission the empire demands of them?”

And that was a beat. Kururugi didn’t understand the question, and so could not answer with anything but, “Sir?”

“Are you prepared to lead a subset of your unit, Suzaku Kururugi?”

Another beat. Kururugi didn’t break eye contact with the wall, “My Lord, respectfully, Private Togo is much more suited to-”

“I am not asking Private Togo, Kururugi, I’m asking you. Can you lead a barrel of former monkeys or not?”

This time, Kururugi took his cue without hesitation, “Yes, My Lord!”

Major Epcar’s smile was almost warm, the hand on Kururugi’s shoulder a suitable facsimile of fatherly pride, “Then congratulations, Private First Class Suzaku Kururugi. You’ll be leading the charge against the rebels.” 

Poor Kururugi. He was supposed to be swelling up with pride, and here he was instead looking like a deer in headlights. Was leadership really so unattractive to him?

Epcar dismissed his new PFC and moved on to the next set of orders he had to bark. Kururugi resumed his seat as if in a daze, visibly turning over in his mind why he’d been chosen. It was obvious enough to Goro, and he wanted to say as much.

Instead, he played the good friend and let out a whoop, “Let’s hear it for PFC Kururugi!” There were some cheers - Goro didn’t always have the ability to drum up everyone. And most of them knew what this promotion was.

Praise bounced off Kururugi as per usual. He gave an embarrassed smile to Togo, “Sorry, Hifumi - I tried to put in a good word for you, but-”

She waved off his worries, “I’m happy for you.” By the way she beamed at Kururugi, Goro could even imagine she was telling the truth. But he bet if he looked long enough at her, he could find the jealousy in her eyes.

Maybe Kururugi could see it already: his tone was still so gentle and apologetic, “I hope you don’t mind me asking you for help - you’ve obviously got the best head for tactics in the squad.” 

Togo went just a touch pink, “Flatterer.” She was so modest, it was infuriating.

“Really though!” Kururugi’s smile looked pained, “I don’t know what they’re thinking, putting me in charge.”

Scratch that: they were _both_ so modest. It was unbearable.

And if Kururugi really didn’t see why he’d been chosen for leadership, he was an idiot. That wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, but Goro’s money was on him willfully ignoring how the world worked. 

Kururugi was a consummate soldier. He was a brilliant physical specimen. He was obedient without being overly unimaginative. He shrank from no challenge, seemingly had no fear of death. And he was the son of Genbu Kururugi, the last prime minister of Japan.

Britannia would want to raise him up as high as it could. ‘Look,’ it would shout, ‘even the son of the old regime believes in and supports the new one - and look how brightly his star shines now!’

And if one day he got shot in the line of duty, all the better. Everyone liked a good martyr.

Goro wondered what he would say if he explained all that to him. Could he keep pretending he didn’t follow the politics even after they were made explicitly clear? 

Instead, Goro put on his best face, “Now which of us is fishing for compliments, Kururugi?” They both laughed at that, as if it had been a joke.

For the rest of their time in the mess hall, Togo shared her best estimates for what a good tactical approach to defending a hospital would be. It was almost all guesswork - they hadn’t been briefed yet on the actual field capacity of Yamato Eternal - but you could just see Kururugi mentally taking notes, occasionally voicing his counter to the theoretical force.

Goro kept quiet, except to put in a smart remark or shameless flattery. That was his role in their makeshift little trio. Togo strained herself over tactics and strategy she’d never get to directly implement. Kururugi never stopped working on being Britannia’s honorary golden child. And Goro made them laugh so the stress didn’t give them an aneurysm in some critical moment when they were supposed to be keeping him alive.

They all barely noticed the transition from mess hall to transport - all it really constituted was a lull in conversation, replaced briefly by marching. Kururugi, bless him, at least had the sense to lead his subdivision in that. Goro made sure he was the loudest voice calling back to him.

Often, the 15th was airdropped into whatever their mission was to be, but today they were instead loaded into the backs of armored trucks. Britannia usually designed for style, but they’d made an exception here: each of the vehicles looked like a big blue brick, or like a child’s toy made enormous. They almost looked plastic - but Goro had seen one take a missile from a knightmare frame and keep on rolling.

He happened to know that they were structurally weakest on the bottom. Few rebels knew that, and fewer could capitalize on it, so he felt safe enough piling into the back of one.

You could feel where settlement roads gave way to the ghetto - the ride got all the bumpier all of a sudden. Goro was jostled against Togo to his left and Tatsumi to his right. The one was too concerned with playing war games with Kururugi, the other too busy trying to stay stoic and coolheaded for anything else.

Goro just stayed quiet, and tried to listen. One of his advantages in a transport was that they weren’t built so thick that a keen ear couldn’t pick out what was on the outside. The rumble of tires on track and the whir of the machine’s Sakuradite engine didn't cover the ambient sound - he could hear the cries of Sendai’s Eleven population as the 15th passed them, though not what they were saying. It was easy to guess - the fools decried Britannia’s continued occupation and warmongering, and the smart cheered them on for driving the terrorist menace out of their homes.

More interesting were the whirs of what Goro was pretty sure were Glasgows. The 15th didn’t usually get knightmare support. If they had it, what did that about the hospital hijackers? He wasn’t keen on facing down enemy knightmare frames with a rifle in his hand and a prayer on his lips - Japan had tried that seven years ago, and that was why it was Area 11 now.

He took solace in the fact that Glasgows were last-gen tech - if Britannia thought they _needed_ knightmares to win this one, they would use the best that they had at their disposal. If they weren’t using the top of their game, it was because they didn’t think they’d need it.

Goro didn’t bother to relay his thoughts to Kururugi and Togo. It would have been too much effort to explain why their affable, foppish Akechi was paying close enough attention to what was outside to know the model knightmare frames they had at their disposal. And once they reached the battlefield, the Britannian blue bloods piloting the machines outside would do what they pleased. Whatever he planned, no jumped up Eleven could hope to command them.

It might have been unjust, but so what? You just found a way to work around that.

When they’d arrived, Goro arranged so as not to be the first one out of the transport. Britannian military doctrine liked to place foot soldiers out of the line of fire, but they weren’t always so careful with auxiliaries. Sure enough, Hanamura had scarcely got a foot on the ground before a sniper’s bullet pinged off the transport doors, maybe a foot from his head.

And so Kururugi’s first order was the most obvious, “Find cover!” As if anyone needed to be told. Military decorum wasn’t quite forgotten as they scrambled for anything high enough to hide behind. It was a good thing a hospital parking lot was always going to be packed - the 15th didn’t exactly struggle to hide.

Goro even managed to get a spot next to Kururugi, behind an ancient black gas-guzzler. Thick and sturdy, but when they burst they burned. At least when a sakuradite engine blew, you had one second of horror, and then oblivion.

Kururugi, daring as always, was the first to steal a glance at the building. Another bullet sang out, and he ducked back down with a nervous smile in Goro’s direction, which was easily returned, “At least they can’t aim, right?”

Nodding, Kururugi added more seriously, “Our approach will still be easier if we can do it without getting shot at. Fifth floor, third window from the left. Think you can manage it from here?”

Goro was already locking a scope onto his St. George, standard issue in Britannian infantry. They were supposed to be the most versatile machine rifles in the world, able to be adjusted for long, middling, and short range purposes. The rebel in that window probably had the family hunting rifle. Adjusting the barrel to its maximal length, Goro nodded, “Of course, you’ll need to get someone to draw his fire.”

Kururugi smiled, saluted, and dashed out into the open. Goro didn’t know why that surprised him, but for a second it did. Then he was up, heart pounding, drawing his sights to the window Kururugi had given him. Sure enough, a man in Japanese combat fatigues and a _banzai_ headband was lining up a shot of his own. Goro smirked, murmured, “Let me show you how to shoot, friend.” He squeezed the trigger.

He didn’t stick around to find out if he’d hit. A good way for a sniper to get shot - as he’d demonstrated - was to stay in one place after firing. He was already on the move, ducking behind a tan sakuradite two-seater. Posh enough that it was probably a Britannian doctor’s rather than a ghetto local’s. No answering shots rang out, so he assumed he’d hit.

Kururugi was operating under the same assumption, shouting, “Everyone, advance!”

And so they did, leapfrogging from car to car to the awning of the hospital entrance and relative safety. There were only five to Kururugi’s miniature squad - himself, Togo, Hanamura, Tatsumi, and Goro.

Hanamura winked in Kururugi’s direction, “Hey leader, maybe save some of the heroics for the rest of us?” His idea of a compliment.

“Sorry,” Kururugi said sheepishly. He glanced past him, “Togo,” field decorum always trumped false familiarity, “That was just one guy. What’s your take?”

“That they want us in the building,” Togo said immediately. She closed her eyes, considered, “They probably have a defensible position higher up. Or this is some other feint to draw us in.”

“So we’re walking into a trap?” Goro gave a forlorn sigh that belonged on the stage, “I suppose what else is new.”

“Nothing for it,” Kururugi said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “Then we just play it safe and prove them wrong. Everyone goes home today.”

Silly promises to make on the battlefield. Kururugi and Hanamura made the initial breach together, and they alternated throughout the group after that. They advanced down pristine white hallways at a crawl, stopping to make sure every doorway, corner, and broom closet was clear.

The whole place was eerily quiet, and emptier than you’d think a hospital could be. Patients and staff must have been herded somewhere higher up to be used as hostages. Goro wondered how YE had managed to move the bedridden or otherwise crippled.

Their ascent was slow, methodical. That familiar tension, the knowledge that the fight would start at any moment, was somehow all the greater for their lack of supervision. Normally, they’d have a Britannian officer maintaining order. The lack of someone more experienced than them felt wrong, somehow.

Goro’s biggest worry was the team. You could never predict what someone else was going to do under pressure. Whenever Tatsumi’s turn to make a breach came, Goro was always nervous that he was going to start shooting at nothing. Or given the slow ascent, the long nothing would dull Hanamura’s guard.

Then all at once, he stopped worrying about anything. He and Togo took their turn, counted to three and aimed their weapons down a hallway. And were faced with a half dozen YE soldiers in mishmashes of Britannian armor and Japanese uniforms. They stood in support of an antique, a relic of the battlefield: an honest-to-god gatling gun, with an honest-to-god hand crank.

That crank turned, and the antique roared to life. Togo and Goro dove for cover on the other side of the hallway, watched the wall behind where they’d stood a moment before be torn apart, bullet after bullet clanging to the floor.

Togo breathed, maybe for the first time since they’d entered the building, in quick, rapid pants, hugging her St. George to her. Goro smiled, he hoped reassuringly, “Close one.”

She snorted, “Just a little.”

Down the hall, the gunfire died down. The YE’s fervor did not, “Come die like men, Britannian lapdogs!”

Someone else dutifully added, “Long live Japan!”

Kururugi took charge, shouting - in Japanese, which was not protocol but would ensure he was understood by everyone, “Anyone who lays down their weapon now and surrenders will have the chance to defend themselves in court.”

That, as it tended to, only got laughter, “Anyone who listens to this child and rolls over for the Britannians will get the coward’s death they deserve.”

Kururugi sighed, pressed the back of his head against the wall in frustration, muttering, “One time…”

A part of Goro was amused at his frustration - another cared much more about living, “What next, fearless leader?”

Togo added - in English, which mitigated the trouble of planning in front of one’s opposition, “Command must want us to blow the wall.” A tall order, but Britannian ordinance would be up to the task. At which point a knightmare could ascend the hospital and blast away the rebels. Even an over the hill Glasgow was more than a match for any thousand mere mortal men. An easy fix.

But Togo didn’t quite hide her bitterness at the implied order. And Kururugi was enough of a white knight to explain why, “We’re in a hospital - probably the only one the ghetto has access to. Sendai would never forgive us.”

Yes, Kururugi. That was why command wanted it to be former Elevens who did it. Britannia could get the results it wanted, with all the carnage that entailed, and still be able to step back and say, ‘No part of this is mine. Whatever happened happened because of Eleven savagery.’

It was borderline irresponsible for Kururugi not to see it. There was idealism, and then there was being so blind it endangered his squad. 

In Kururugi’s place, Goro was sure he already would have given the order. It didn’t matter what they did here today: the ghetto would still hate them as traitors and Britannia would still hate them as pretenders. What was one actual, concrete reason for disdain in the face of those facts?

Hanamura, the bastard, opened his mouth, “Akechi, do you think you could…?” He mimed pointing a pistol at his head, firing, slumping back.

‘ _Dealing with all of you? Maybe._ ’ Goro took a moment to be seen to consider, put some waver into his voice, “I could. I’ll get my guts shot out as soon as I turn the corner, but…”

Hanamura laughed, sheepishly adding, “I mean… All Hail Britannia, right?”

“You’re welcome to try if that’s how you feel.”

“Don’t want to steal your thunder, man.”

Goro already had his retort on his tongue when Kururugi forced them back on task, “Goro, you just need them to be shooting somewhere else, right?”

He wouldn’t. “Yes, but-”

Kururugi took a deep breath, nodded to himself. Smiled at Goro, “Then don’t miss.”

Then he took off down the hallway, and the world seemed to slow down.

The YE must have placed their leader on the gatling gun. He was too well decorated to be anything else, all medals and pomp. He sprang into action, and even as Goro’s squadmates called out to their (surely doomed) leader, he could swear that all he heard were the pings of each individual bullet as it ripped the far wall to shreds.

So that was it? It was just all on him? Stupid, unfair, idiocy! Damn Kururugi and damn anyone foolish enough to pretend they were a hero.

No time. He’d wasted enough. Goro turned the corner, felt his hands shake, aimed, fired.

Missed.

He ducked back around the corner, shook his head. As the gatling gun went silent, he braced himself for Kururugi’s agonized moans, for the long-coming death of Britannia’s honorary golden child.

And he heard nothing. Looked at Togo. She seemed just as surprised.

They must have hit his head. Good. Kururugi could go out of the world the way he’d went throughout it: utterly oblivious to his ultimate fate.

The call came from just up the hallway - maybe a patient’s room - “No good. One more try?”

Never had an officer so motivated his troops by not dying. Hanamura and Tatsumi let out muted cheers, Togo lit up like a V11 Day firework. Goro had to admit, he even felt a brief spark of relief himself. 

But of course Kururugi, given a brief reprieve from death, wanted to face it down again.

Why couldn’t he at least stop selfishly trusting Goro with his own life? If he ordered Tatsumi or Hanamura to stare down the gatling gun, and the worst should happen, at least they’d share the blame. Why make Goro shoulder all the expected guilt on his own?

Before he could answer, the YE’s leader called out, “Enough of this farce! Prepare to charge!” All he had to do was wait for them to come down the hallway to get mowed down. Maybe Goro had come closer to hitting him than he’d thought.

“On three?” Kururugi called out.

“Yes, let’s give them a count so they know when to start shooting,” Goro spat, forgetting to be politic for a moment, “Sir.”

And damn him, Kururugi only gave a nervous laugh, “Fair enough.”

Down the hall, the cry of, “ _Nihonheika_ _Banzai_!!!” went up. Feet pounded down the hallway. Some rebel units would have a problem firing into the backs of their own soldiers. Goro didn’t like their chances with this one, though.

Sit still and get shot (perhaps even bayoneted) or take action and get shot. The Goro Akechi story.

He kept in character to the end, at least, giving Togo a nervous wink before turning the corner again. Just in time to see Kururugi do the same - but he wasn’t running this time. His rifle was to his shoulder, kicking back with three rapid, precise shots.

Just as the gatling gun sprang to life again, those turned to three explosions of gnarled red ruin on the enemy officer’s chest. Once again Goro’s own shot went wide, but this time only because the gatling gun’s operator was already falling.

“Advance!” Kururugi called out just a moment later than he should have - never wait to see if you hit.

The others joined Goro on either side, rifles roaring in his ear. The YE’s momentum sent them charging straight into a hail of bullets - the few of them that managed to stop long enough to fire got off only one or two useless, frantic shots before they went down.

The shooting died down, and after the last bullets clattered to the ground, the only sound left were the moans of the dying. Another beautiful massacre. All hail Britannia.

Kururugi’s voice was grim as he said, “Tatsumi, Togo, secure the gatling gun. There might be more of them. Akechi, Hanamura, restrain the wounded.” He took a moment, maybe considering whether he should say the next part, “Try to stop the bleeding wherever you can. The fewer people die today, the better.”

To himself, where no one could see, Goro rolled his eyes. But an order was an order. And so he wasted perfectly good bandages on the stomach wounds of a groaning man whose _banzai_ headband alone could have gotten him convicted of terrorism. The man sat up suddenly - as suddenly as a dead man could - and Goro’s first instinct was to shoot him again. But he refrained, and was rewarded with the hatred in the rebel’s eyes, “Does it feel good, lapdog? Killing your countrymen for the invaders?”

Goro smiled sweetly, “Probably better than dying for a lost cause does.”

The man hacked one bark of laughter, and the flecks of blood it spat told Goro he’d just wasted his time, “Kid… I’d rather die a thousand times with my head held high than bow down once.”

“Good for you.” Goro took just a moment to lower the man back down to the bloodied linoleum, zip tie his hands. It wouldn’t matter in, oh, twenty minutes or so. But it made his point.

“Akechi,” Kururugi said, and for a moment Goro was sure he was about to be reprimanded for following orders, “This floor’s clear. Let’s move on.”

Goro saluted, “Yes, sir.”

Just as he did, Togo called out, “Suz- Kururugi- _san_!” 

Something horrified slipped over Kururugi’s face for a moment. Goro only partially had to fake his own worry - Togo didn’t slip like that during a mission. They rushed to her voice, found her pointing her rifle in only somewhat shaking hands up the steps to the next floor.

Where stood a boy who at most might have been twelve. If it weren’t for the _Nambu_ pistol he pointed back down at them, or the chrysanthemum pattern stenciled on his white tank top, Goro might have thought he was a patient - a hostage.

As it was, he was another target. Goro drew his own pistol - which could have served in the Invasion, but was still newer tech than the kid’s 20th century relic - and trained it on the boy. When he spoke to Togo, he made sure his voice was sufficiently grave, “Get out of his line of fire. I’ll take the shot.”

No, not sufficiently. Togo still looked at him like he was crazy, which struck Goro as astronomically unfair. Kururugi voiced her thought, “No, you won’t, Goro.” He kept his voice low, as if talking to a scared dog, didn’t take his eyes off the YE’s child soldier. Switched to Japanese, “Guns down.”

Togo was so ready to obey that order, and it was Goro’s turn to check if his squadmates had taken leave of their senses. Kururugi raised his hands, palms out, and stepped in front of them. Fine. Let him have one more chance today to die foolishly. Goro lowered his gun.

Kururugi spoke gently, but firmly, “Hello. My name’s Kururugi Suzaku - and you?”

Such a sweet touch. But in vain - the Kururugis were already infamous among the resistance. And the best kind of rebel martyr took down traitors with them.

But maybe, for once, Kururugi’s name did not precede him. The boy was playing ball. In a voice that hadn’t yet dropped, he squeaked, “W-Watanabe Ieyasu.”

Kururugi smiled affably, before taking another step up toward Watanabe, putting his back to his subordinates. Goro thought of the YE soldiers charging in front of their own gatling gun. The boy tensed, but didn’t shoot. A perfect way to make him do so would be to draw on him again. That suited Goro fine: it meant that this was all on Kururugi.

In that same calming tone, Kururugi said, “Watanabe-san, how long have you been a soldier?”

The boy lied through his teeth, “I- I’ve been fighting since the invasion!” Newly minted. Maybe not even bloodied yet.

Kururugi almost laughed, “Wow - I guess I should be calling you _senpai_.” The boy bristled, but let him take another step, “The battle here is over, Watanabe- _senpai_. You can let go now. There’s no point in further bloodshed.”

“No surrender!” The kid shouted suddenly - but he was shaking. Quoting doctrine to mask his own insecurities, “No retreat, not until every last one of-”

“There’s no one left to hold you to that, Watanabe- _senpai_ ,” Kururugi said solemnly. Another step, and the boy’s back was against the far wall now, “And dying today isn’t going to help your cause. Whoever it is you’re fighting for… you can’t give them what they want today. I’m sorry.” Goro could just see that stupid reassuring look on Kururugi’s face, “But if you put down the gun, I can make sure you’re treated fairly. We can help you find a better way, a… gentler way to fight for your cause.”

Watanabe was showing just how green he was now, tears visibly forming in his eyes, “But… but I…”

“I know you’re scared,” Kururugi was level with him now, “But if you let me, I can help. _We_ can help. No one else has to die today.”

That was the moment they won. Watanabe hesitated for one more moment, then quickly held out his gun like it had gone hot in his hands. Goro thought he might break down, but the boy comported himself fairly well. Kururugi smiled brightly, leading him back down the stairs, “Thank you, Watanabe- _senpai_.”

Goro and Togo let out a breath at once. To look at her, Kururugi might have been the second coming. Her eyes practically shone with admiration, “Suzaku…”

“That was amazing!” Goro spouted immediately, forcing as much levity in his voice as he could, “Though what else could we expect from our PFC?”

That didn’t seem to startle the kid - maybe he didn’t know what a PFC was. Or he just expected that Kururugi was the commanding officer. Kururugi, for his part, played at modesty yet again. Goro waited for an ‘all in a days work’ or a ‘just doing what anyone would do.’ Instead he cleared his throat, went to business, “Akechi, Togo, let’s sweep the rest of the floors. There might be more of them, and we still have to find the hostages. Watanabe- _senpai_ , if you don’t mind coming with us..?”

He did not. The rest of the sweep went peaceably enough. There were few YE members left in the building, and what few there were were quick to lay down their arms when they saw that they wouldn’t be the first of their unit to do so. No one else fired a shot for the rest of the mission. Kururugi was confident enough to call for a transport for Watanabe and the others. He carefully did not call them prisoners.

The air of relief was only soured when they began to find the hostages. The patients were universally unharmed, as were most of the Eleven cleaning staff. But six Britannian doctors had been beheaded. Goro looked forward to seeing their faces on the news for the next few months. He tried to remember the faces of the fourteen Eleven nurses who’d similarly been put to the sword, for the crime of speaking out against the doctors’ murders. Goro doubted he would ever see them again.

None of the not-prisoners had taken part in the executions. Of course.

When finally Kururugi’s squad was able to leave the hospital, they were met almost immediately by a Britannian officer. She was about Kururugi’s height, dark with long hair of an odd silver-blue. She must have been their knightmare pilot, judging by the tight purple flight suit. Not for the first time, Goro idly wondered if all knightmare frames were piloted by supermodels. He almost didn’t notice the red wing pin on her lapel that marked her for a Pureblood.

Ah, but then she opened her mouth, “The monkeys actually managed it on their own.” Plaster on a fake smile and pretend you didn’t hear it. She immediately pegged Kururugi for the group leader, saluted the concept of him while staring through the actual person, “We’ll take it from here, Eleven. You’re dismissed.”

‘Good job in there, soldier.’ 

Kururugi knew to salute, as did his squad, “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.”

She’d already turned on a heel, barking orders to round up the prisoners. Kururugi tensed, remained at attention. This time the officer didn’t even look at him to say, “Didn’t you hear me? I said you’re dismissed.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Kururugi said. It almost sounded bitter. He turned to look at his squad, smiled sheepishly, “Well… I guess that could have gone worse?”

Tatsumi dropped military decorum immediately, kicking at a pebble, “The hell does that broad think she is. We-” Hanamura elbowed him before he could say anything else, and the two descended into bickering as they headed back to the transport that would return them all to base.

Togo’s eyes were on the prisoners as they were herded into their own transport. She chewed a lip, decided on asking, “What do you suppose will happen…?”

They all knew what would happen. It was irresponsible to pretend that they didn’t. Goro watched as Watanabe was loaded into the vehicle, as he looked back at them with that nervous hope. It was only beginning to be touched by suspicion.

Kururugi breathed deeply, probably for the first time since the mission had started, “I’ll have to file a mission report. I’ll make sure to include that they were cooperative - a lot of them were probably coerced into working with YE.” He shook his head, painted on a brave face, “I’m just glad we managed to stop things where we did. They deserve a chance to live too.”

Goro looked at him, and was shocked to see how serious he was. Kururugi actually believed - genuinely - that any one of the rebels was going to get the treatment he promised them. There was naïve, and there was… what could this even be called?

Where did he think that truck was going right now?

Goro wanted to say all of that. Wanted to smack some sense into this fop who was somehow his commanding officer. Instead, he put on a bright, sardonic smile and said, “Well, I’m sure if anyone can convince high command…”

Kururugi shrugged wearily, “I have to try. If I just… just _assume_ I can’t do anything, what’s the point in getting up in the morning?”

“Aw. And here most of us are just in it for citizenship,” Goro loved the flush that crossed Togo’s cheeks at that. Let her remember that she was no real idealist either.

But Kururugi had the nerve to laugh, “I mean, you say that, Goro. But you’re a better person than that.” He looked at him, winked, “I mean, I’m sure you are - somewhere, deep down.”

Goro stiffened. Sometimes, Kururugi said things like that, gave that sad, knowing smile. And even though Goro knew it was impossible, there was always a terrifying glimmer of a moment where he was sure that, for all of his naïveté, Suzaku Kururugi knew exactly what he _really_ was.


	3. Besieged

**August 5, 2017 A.T.B. - Ann**

“I can’t believe he hung up on me! Again!!!” For a second, Ann was certain that Shirley was going to throw her phone across the room. The urge must’ve been real: she was positively fuming, glaring at it as if _it_ had blown off today’s student council meeting.

No need to kill the messenger. Ann puffed out a cheek, shook her head at where Milly sat as if in meditation at the table’s head, “Rivalz’s not picking up either.”

Milly breathed in once, pinched the bridge of her nose, “Which means they’re together.”

Ann’s phone pinged in confirmation. She checked it, snorted, and held it up, “Yep.”

It was actually a pretty good selfie, for Rivalz. He winked at the camera beneath his goggles, with his tongue stuck out impishly. Beside him, in the sidecar, someone who was definitely not Lelouch held up his pocket copy of _Doctor Faustus_ to cover his face. The Tokyo Settlement skyline blurred in the background.

Shirley shrieked. It was ear splitting, “Those…!” she visibly swallowed something more colorful, went instead with, “Those jerks!”

“Jerks indeed,” Milly said in tones that hinted at repercussions. Seriously, how could she give off such mafia vibes?

Ann’s phone pinged again. Lelouch this time, ‘Please don’t encourage Rivalz. Against my better judgement, I’d like to live.’

A beat later, he added, ‘And it wouldn’t do for an Ashford student council member to be pulled over for texting while driving.’

Ann rolled her eyes, shot back, ‘That’d almost be as bad as two Ashford student council members getting busted for gambling.’

The reply was immediate, because Lelouch had an answer for everything, ‘I’ll make sure we don’t get caught, then.’

‘Tool.’

Whether he actually saw that, or if he just went back to being aloof and pretentious, he didn’t bother to respond. Which only proved Ann’s assessment right.

She nearly jumped out of her seat, noticing Shirley leaning over her shoulder. She didn’t remove herself, only sulked, “I hate that he actually gets back to you.”

Ann patted Shirley’s head - mostly comfort. Admittedly some patronizing - though that was what Shirley got for obsessing over boys who literally didn’t care if she lived or died, “There there.”

Milly was not so gentle, throwing her head back in an operatic wail, “‘Oh, why is my darling Lulu texting other girls? When will he settle down and be responsible!?’”

Which at least returned Shirley to form, “Madame President!”

“Madame President?” Nina echoed, quieter. It was embarrassing to admit, but Ann had actually forgot she was there. Which made her feel bad - it wasn’t Nina’s fault she was such a wallflower. She had more of a head for the lab than any kind of social situation. Usually, she was the picture of logic. The closest the student council had to someone with any kind of sense, “If they’re not going to make it today, would it be better to just start without them?”

Ann pumped a fist, “Yeah! If they don’t want to be involved, just means they don’t get votes!”

Milly nodded, adding, “We’re waiting on Akira, too. He’s got a program thing.” Ann liked that euphemism. Milly was good at dodging mentioning Akira’s parole.

Not good enough. Magnified already by absurdly thick glasses, Nina’s eyes widened. She tried to smile, but couldn’t disguise her nerves. Great, “O-oh. Mr. Karasu agreed to join, then?”

If she’d just _stuck around_ yesterday, she would’ve seen that there was nothing to be afraid of. But she’d made her decision: Akira was dangerous, and nothing was going to change her mind. No one in Britannia had any real imagination when it came to other people. Sometimes, Ann told herself that that was exaggerating. Then she’d talk with Nina.

And she must have looked like she was going to say something to that effect, because there was Shirley with the save, “I mean, it’s not like he had a choice, Nina. Once Milly got her hooks in him…”

Milly yowled in agreement, clawing at the air, which pretty effectively defused Ann’s frustrations. It even got real smile out of Nina, which she then capitalized on, gently saying, “He’s really nice, Nina. Just breathe and give him a chance. You’ll be fine.”

Ann didn’t know what damage Nina had that made her so afraid of the Japanese. Whatever it was, Milly could always help her through it. She always gave this determined little ‘I can do it!’ nod. In any other context, it might’ve been cute.

As for Milly, she could just slingshot from almost motherly to ‘insane-council-prez-kingpin’ in nothing flat, “Alright ladies. We have a budget to budget. The clubs are getting antsy waiting on who’s getting how much this semester. There’s only one thing for it…” Milly pointed to the sky in triumph, “I motion we put this duty off ’til the boys get back and bum it off on them!”

“Seconded!” Ann shouted at the same time that Shirley and Nina tittered their objections.

“Madame President!” Shirley said again, “We can’t just… if we do that, they’re just gonna put it off until we have to step in.”

“Indeed. That, though, sounds like a problem for future-Milly and _she’s_ got more of her team to work with. Ann, did I hear ‘seconded?’” at her nod, Milly spoke like some rapid-fire judge, “Motion passes, boom, next item!”

“There’s a next item?” Ann asked, leaning forward a little in her chair, “Got a new crazy dream, Madame Prez? The crossdresser’s ball was a hit!”

“We can’t spend any more money until we know how much the clubs are getting,” Nina murmured in tones that suggested that ‘can’t’ was a word that could be massaged.

Shirley was losing control of the situation, and with it any semblance of composure, “I… I want it on record that I _strongly_ object to blowing off our only real job for another…”

“Boondoggle?” Ann suggested. Shirley pointed to her: boondoggle it was.

Inspecting her nails, Milly said airily, “The council acknowledges your objections, Ms. Fenette. Secretary Cardemonde, please make a note of… oh wait.” She gestured to an empty chair, “He’s not here. There is no record, Shirley. No record at all.”

Ann barely heard Nina say, “I could just keep the record if that would help,” which made it easy to ignore. Sorry girl.

“Now!” Milly continued, “If there are no further objections…”

“There are _several_!”

“… that don’t come from Shirley,” she paused to allow Shirley one last, wordless cry, “then we can move on: sooo… V11 Day is coming up. We doing something?”

For the life of her, Ann couldn’t remember what V11 Day was. Britannian holidays were weird. It was like they were all in code, to keep anyone from actually figuring out if they could take the day off.

Shirley shrugged a little, “Do you mean like, we the student council on behalf of the school, or we, the student council, as a group in our downtime?” She narrowed her eyes, and Ann could practically mouth along as she added, “Because it’ll clearly be hard to nail down Lulu for any period of time.”

Inspecting her nails, Milly airily quipped, “Yes, we all know how much you’d like to nail down Lulu.” Before that could land (right as Shirley yelped in protest), she was back at the races, “We, the student council. I’ve set a high standard: we’re expected to have something planned for any halfway decent holiday. Fireworks are just a touch too obvious - I’d hate to start getting predictable.”

Fireworks! That jolted Ann’s memory. V11 Day was like… like an independence day, but in reverse. Victory in Area 11 Day. When Britannia had officially declared war on Japan, spelling the end of its independence. Most countries would call their victory when the war ended, rather than when it began. Britannia was not like most countries.

She’d gone with Shirley’s family to the last one, to celebrate the start of her first year in Area 11. Everything had felt crowded. When Britannians came together to celebrate, they seemed almost like an ameba, a single unified organism cheering when the powers that be asked that they cheer. That celebratory attitude had been easy to get lost in, especially as the Yokohama harbor lit up with fireworks. There had been something intoxicating in the air: a sense of community, of belonging that Ann had found herself delighting in.

The lights, the cheering, all had come to an immediate silence - screens throughout Tokyo (and no doubt, throughout Japan) flipped immediately to a speech by Prince Clovis la Britannia, viceroy of Area 11.

Now, she couldn’t remember what he’d said. She just remembered thinking that he looked so much like a fairytale prince saying it. But she did remember how he’d ended things: “Britannia showed it was strong when it took Area 11. Loyal subjects, let us show the world that we are still strong by holding it evermore! All hail Britannia!”

And that same crowd that had seemed a moment ago a family to which she could almost want to belong had stood, suddenly uniform, suddenly a monolith. And they’d echoed, “All hail Britannia!”

The weirdest thing had been looking over at Shirley, and seeing her cheering right along with the rest of them. They hadn’t known each other for long back then, but it was still so bizarre: this bright and sunny girl who cared nothing for politics, who just wanted things neat and orderly and rarely had a sour word for anyone. A single command - not even a command, a slogan, and she was replaced by a Loyal Subject.

Yeah, if a year had somehow already passed since then, there was no way Ann wanted to recreate that for Ashford. She hid this behind a plastic smile, “We can afford to spice it up. Everywhere’s gonna be doing fireworks.”

“Well,” Nina murmured, maybe to herself, “They’re supposed to remind people of the human cost of bringing Area 11 into the modern age.” She could be such a know-it-all. It was the second worst thing about her. The worst thing flared as she managed to speak up, “I was reading online - there was another attack in Sendai.” She tensed - she was psyching herself out just remembering, “M-maybe we could hold a candlelit vigil for the fallen? Or for everyone who’s died to keep the Settlement safe?”

Not to be insensitive, but if Ann had known that Nina was going to bring the mood down anyway, she’d have just shouted, ‘Celebrating conquest and oppression is crazy! You Britannians are all crazy!’

Sometimes, Ann was sure that Milly had a wiretap in all of her council’s brains. She always seemed to know when someone was about to go off, and how to shepherd them back to madness as usual. This time, she went with waggling a finger at Nina’s suggestion, “What’s my one rule?”

Uh…” Nina, so used to there being a right and easy answer, audibly struggled for want of one, “‘All of life’s a show?’”

If there was a right answer, Ann was pretty sure she could get it, “‘Dream bigger?’”

“‘Always put Shirley in a skimpy outfit, regardless of context?’” Shirley suggested, deadpan.

“Yes, yes and _definitely_ yes!” Milly cheered, “But also no: the answer we’re looking for is ‘no candlelit vigils.’ The dearly departed deserve to be celebrated - we owe it to them to live our best lives!”

“‘To live our best lives?’” Ann repeated, stifling a snort, “Really, Madame President?”

Milly crossed her arms, “I stand by it. Clichés are clichés for a reason, Ann.”

“We’re sure we don’t want to do a fireworks show?” Shirley asked. And honestly, it wasn’t so much that Ann didn’t want one so much as she wanted to break from the pattern that led to ‘All hail Britannia!’ “We could see if it’s in the budget to-”

“We already unanimously agreed that we weren’t doing the budget today.”

“There was _nothing_ unanimous about it!”

“Maybe we could do something to kind of celebrate Japanese culture?” For a moment, Ann thought that would only get stunned silence. Other than Nina mouthing ‘Eleven culture,’ which was easy enough for her to pretend not to notice, they seemed more curious than appalled. Which at least meant her friends weren’t completely brainwashed. Ann soldiered on, “It’s supposed to be all about how Japan was brought into the empire, right? Maybe we could do something to try and, like, celebrate what it brought with it?”

Nina gulped - maybe she knew how much they were straddling the line of her and Ann’s fundamental disagreement (are the Japanese/Elevens people or not?), maybe she was just terrified at the very prospect of learning something new about pre-Britannia Japan, “Ann, it’s… really more about how Britannia’s fixing the problems with Area 11’s culture than-”

Milly, the best shepherd, plowed over her, “Alright, I’ll bite. Whattaya got, Ann?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Ann tried the first pitch that came into her head. Which, of course, was food, “We could maybe do a kind of cultural festival type thing! We could set up booths with stuff like traditional Japanese cuisine.”

Shirley made a face, “Ann, you’re not gonna try and make me eat raw fish again?”

Nina’s was even more revolted, “They _did_ that?”

And that finally set Ann off, “Okay, _how_ do you not know about sushi?! Nina, I get being” xenophobic “ _sheltered_ , but that’s like common knowledge!”

Milly stepped in, giving Ann a completely unfair warning look. So she didn’t handle Nina with kid gloves, just once, “I think that sushi might be a bridge too far for a lot of the student body - they’re not all as adventurous as Ann. Cuisine’s a good angle though - any other ideas?”

Nina fidgeted in her seat. Clearly, she wanted an olive branch to give Ann, some kind of help with her idea. Trouble is, ‘knowing about other cultures’ wasn’t exactly her bag, “Uh, rice?”

Ann fought the sudden urge to bang her head against the wall.

It showed. Nina squeaked, “… _fried_ rice?”

Bless her, she tried.

“Does anyone here know what takoyaki is?” Ann asked, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

“Taco what?” Shirley tried too. At least she was less malicious in her ignorance.

Ann felt a migraine coming on. She needed to power through it, “They’re like these little balls of batter with stuff in them. Like, onions and ginger and…” this was looking like it might be a hit. Skepticism was giving way on the others’ faces to curiosity. Now for the hard sell, “… octopus…?”

Well, at least Milly’s face lit up at the prospect. Shirley and Nina, though…

Nina was succinct, sticking her tongue out and gagging as if she’d even tried one. She should be so lucky. Shirley was similarly, utterly unduly disgusted, “Why do Elevens want to _eat_ the _ocean_!?”

_Because Japan is an island, you dummy!_

Milly snorted at the others, offering an apologetic smile Ann’s way, “I… think we’ve been outvoted.” No way. “What else d’you got?”

Ann threw up her hands and let herself sink down in her chair, “Guys, I can’t be the only one coming up with things.”

“It’s not a bad idea, Ann. Maybe just no food?” Shirley suggested. It sounded like sacrilege, “Or like, food obviously, but something a little more normal? We could put little banzai flags in stuff?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s an army thing,” Nina said quietly. So she _had_ absorbed some of the culture she lived next to, even if it was just enough to confirm what she already thought about the world.

Shirley grimaced, “Not that, then. But there must be some other symbol that terrorists haven’t already ruined, right?”

“Would that be legal?” Ann asked innocently, “I thought Britannians weren’t supposed to think about Japan before conquest?”

That was maybe a step too far, as Shirley showed when she swatted the back of her head, “Elevens are part of the imperial family now, Ann. Their culture is _our_ culture.”

_Then why does Nina look like she’s going to have a panic attack every time I say ‘Japan?’_

There was a more constructive question she could ask, “Then like, is there a Japanese band or artist or something we could convince to come here?”

“Well they’d have to be Honorary Britannians,” Shirley explained, completely disregarding the contradiction between that and ‘their culture is our culture,’ “There’s too much paperwork in scheduling Eleven performances in the Settlement, we’d never get them in time for the tenth.”

“Okay,” Ann pressed, mentally glossing over everything wrong with that (because there wasn’t time for Ann to make Shirley understand everything that was gross and insane about Britannian society, and all it would do was get her friend put on a list somewhere), “Then is there an _Honorary Britannian_ band or artist or whatever?”

Their silence held for just a beat too long. Carefully, Milly asked, “Do you… think that Kamoshida- _sensei_ would want to help us?”

Oh sure. It would give him a chance to talk about himself and a chance to show off (because of course volleyball would be involved) _and_ he’d get to feel like Ann owed him a favor. What could be better?

But she couldn’t just say that. So instead, ignoring her leg bouncing up and down under the table, she smiled pretty and said, “Mm… maybe someone else? People see Kamoshida every day - he doesn’t exactly shine brightly enough for your standards, Madame Prez.”

Milly tapped her chin thoughtfully, “Oh, I don’t know about that: he’s got killer shoulders…” she winked, and Ann suppressed a shiver, “Color me jealous, teacher’s pet.”

How could Milly be so aware of seemingly every situation except for this one?

Nina had disappeared for a moment into her phone, which only became noticeable when she resurfaced, “Prince Clovis is going to open a new art gallery soon, and one of the featured artists is an Honorary Britannian!” She scrolled through whatever article it was, quirking an eyebrow, “Uh… Michelangelo Rousseau?”

“Oh! I know about him!” Milly said excitedly, “My mom’s going to that - we have an in!” 

“That doesn’t sound like an Eleven name,” Shirley commented, just a little obviously.

In a rare show of bite, Nina rolled her eyes, “Some Elevens take Britannian names when they achieve honorary status. They think it’ll make us forget they were born Numbers.”

And therefore help them get _any_ work in the society they’d sold their souls to join. Got it. 

Milly leaned forward - she had this way of practically crawling onto the table when they were brainstorming. It was a little weird, but so was Milly, so it evened out, “That’s a start, though - we can build something around a theme of ‘honoring the honorary artist.’ Good find, Nina.”

Shirley, who’d consulted her own phone, lit up with excitement, “Madame President, it says here that he’s got a bunch of students around our age!”

“This is the kind of hard hitting detective work I expect from my council!” Milly shouted. Her pep was contagious: it honestly did feel like they were accomplishing something here. Then the madness set in, “I’m already starting to see a theme: a kind of ‘painted faces ball.’ We’ll make everyone dress up like art pieces and-”

“Or!” Shirley stammered, trying desperately to wave off whatever was coming, “We could have like a more subdued event? Something quiet and thoughtful.”

Milly blinked, “Shirley, honey, that’s the silliest thing I’ve heard all day.”

It caught her more off guard than it should have, “Wha…? _Ann wanted us to eat an octopus!_ ” Nina blanched again at the mere mention of anything unfamiliar.

Logistics for getting Rousseau seemed like they would be simple enough. Apparently he did a lot of this sort of work regularly - his website characterized him clunkily as ‘a liaison between Britannia and her subjects in Area 11 on behalf of His Highness.’ He was technically a part of Prince Clovis’s royal retinue, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t available for hire, so all it was was a fun point of prestige.

‘For hire,’ implying that they’d probably have to pay him for an appearance. Milly, of course, dismissed money as no object. Shirley, of course, objected that they wouldn’t know if that was true until they _balanced the budget!_

Nevertheless, Milly forged ahead, “So we’re in agreement, then?” Shirley threw up her hands and faced the wall, resigned to be ignored, “I’ll see if we can touch base with Rousseau, and if he’s interested we can try and build an event around an art exhibit - actually, that’s perfect. Maybe we do that even if he says no?”

You did not fight against the river’s current: you embraced it, traveled along its flow. Ann offered two thumbs up (even though she suspected this wouldn’t be quite what she had in mind when she’d suggested the idea), and Nina nodded vigorously. Shirley threw up her hands again, but that seemed mostly just for drama’s sake.

Milly smirked, “Well then… ladies, we have a plan of action! Does anyone have any further business - Shirley if you even _think_ the word ‘budget,’ I’ll text Lulu a love poem and say it’s from you!”

Which set her to sputtering, “M-Madame Presi- what is wrong with you!?!”

Classic misdirection. If it meant getting away from _that_ line of thought, Shirley would go along with just about anything. She didn’t even realize that she’d been had until she and and Ann were halfway back to the dorms. 

But when she did… “Honestly, I don’t even know why she keeps me on the council at this point if she’s never gonna listen to me!”

“Well you _are_ our ‘Minister of Eye Candy,’” Ann teased.

And there was that look of betrayal. It shouldn’t have made her laugh, but it did, “Annnn! C’mon, don’t I get enough of that from her?” She huffed, “I just wish our _actual_ officers in _actual_ positions of power would take this all a little more seriously!”

“You were pushing the budget pretty hard - does the team need new swimsuits or something?”

“I mean, no, but that’s not the point - everyone’s relying on us to get it done. None of the clubs can really start planning anything for the semester until we let them know how much they have to spend,” she gestured toward the impossible expansive practice field, the sounds of Ashford’s various sports clubs hard at work, “They’re all doing their best to achieve their dreams - don’t we owe it to them to help them get there?”

A part of Ann wasn’t sure how many people were ‘achieving their dreams’ at Ashford. Like, most of them were probably just killing time in their mandatory clubs. But Shirley was so earnest, she could almost believe that her imagined bright eyed mass of expectant students were real. Honestly, Ann wished that she could channel a tenth of her optimism.

“Ashford’s lucky it has someone like you on the council, Shirley,” she said, maybe a little more seriously than the situation called for given the quizzical look it got. She corrected course with a light smile, “What about you? What big dreams is Shirley Fenette chasing at Ashford?”

“Blech. You sound like my dad,” they both laughed at that, but Ann did notice that Shirley didn’t give a real answer. And sure, that was probably the same uncertain angst about the future that Ann sometimes caught herself in. But she _did_ wonder where there was room for a gentle soul in Britannia.

Sometimes she wanted to ask Shirley if she thought there was. She was afraid she might not like the answer.

Close as they were, it was still a topic that Ann wasn’t ready to touch seriously. Shift gears, quickly, “Nina was driving me up a wall today.”

Shirley snorted, “Not everybody wants to eat things with tentacles, Ann, you’re gonna have to accept that.”

“Alright, I won’t make you try _good food_ , Jesus!” there wasn’t much heat in her outburst. _Most_ of it was playacting for Shirley’s amusement. But… “It’s not that, though. It’s like… it’s like she has this little box where she has all the things she knows about the world, and if you try to open it and look closely at what’s inside, she screams and that has to be the end of the conversation. And god forbid you ever try to put something _new_ in there!”

“Nina can be difficult,” Shirley said, gentler than Ann would have, “I don’t think she’s actually met a lot of Elevens - and you have to admit, if you only saw them on TV, wouldn’t they be just a little scary?”

Ann set her jaw. She would give no other answer, because the question wasn’t worth one. A shame that Shirley took it as a cue to keep going, “Nina’s just got a lot of hangups and insecurities and it’s our job to help her through them. But you have to be patient with her.”

Closing her eyes, Ann tried to keep the bitterness from her voice when she added the honesty, “I’m _so tired_ of being patient with everyone. Don’t the strong eat the weak in Britannia?”

“Nina’s not weak,” Shirley said in a tone that actually worried Ann that she’d been too real, and now they were fighting, “Remember that you said she was when you’re asking her for help on exams.”

And that was a punch in the gut, especially because it was probably going to be true, “… fair. Strength comes in all forms, I guess.”

Shirley brightened, which was a relief, “Exactly!” Thoughtfully tapping at her chin, she added, “I think it’s gonna be really good for her to meet Akira. He seems nice, and it’ll be good for her to actually _meet_ an Eleven.”

The way Ann saw it, it was even money that Nina was going to retreat into her shell the second that she met Akira, never to return. And furthermore, “You know that Ashford has Japanese people on maintenance, right?”

She blinked, smacked her head, “Oh yeah - Shiho- _kun_. I… uh…”

“Forgot?”

“I mean it sounds _ugly_ when you say it like that!”

Ann rolled her eyes, mostly without malice, “You know that ‘ _kun_ ’ doesn’t really go there.”

“Uggh, why are there so many honorifics??”

Ann smirked, held up a finger for each one she named, “Shirley, all you need is: _san_. _Kun_. _Chan_. _Sama_. _Dono_ if you’re being fancy, which let’s just be honest, you’re not. I can count them on one hand.” 

Shirley went beet red for embarrassment, “I don’t wanna hear a _word_ , Ms. Speaks-fifty-languages!”

“But then how will I live up to my name?” she retorted playfully, grinning at Shirley’s exaggerated sigh. Glancing over her friend’s shoulder, she raised a hand in greeting, “Hey Akira!”

Poor thing was practically staggering: he’d nearly walked right by them, albeit a couple dozen feet away. Akira at least had the energy still to jog a little their way, stopping once to give ground as some members of the rugby team blustered past. He was flushed and breathing heavily again, which couldn’t just have been his natural state. He’d seemed more put together in lab today - which just meant that his caseworker must’ve been running him ragged. 

He played it off well enough: exhausted could look cool and laid back, depending on how you wore it, “Ann, Shirley. I was just headed your way.” 

“ _Konnichiwa, Akira-kun!_ ” Shirley chirped, only slightly cringey in how she over-pronounced the accent. Glancing briefly at Ann, she asked, “Does - _kun_ work there?”

He smirked, encouraging at the worst possible moment, offering a thumbs up, “You sound like a native speaker, Shirley- _san_.” 

She swelled with pride, and it was hard to begrudge her it. It helped that she had the sense to mime a curtsey instead of a bow when she said, “Airy gato.” Akira’s lip twitched in what was either pain or amusement or both.

“So is the meeting over already?” he asked, and he couldn’t keep that twinge of hope from his voice.

“We called it an early day,” Ann explained, “Lelouch and Rivalz blew us off, felt a little silly to do the full schedule without them.”

“When you see Lulu, could you smack him upside the head?” Shirley asked, somehow innocently, “Maybe he’ll learn if I’m not the only one telling him to take things more seriously.”

That was unfair for a number of reasons, with varying levels of intensity. Akira rubbed at his neck, “That might not play well on Captain Riegel’s next report.” He managed to play it off as a joke, which Ann had to appreciate, “I’ll have to apologize to Milly later - I really thought I was gonna be able to make it.”

Ann waved that off, “Please. You’re doing your best.”

“All you really missed were V11 Day plans anyway,” Shirley said airily, “Honestly, maybe it’s better you weren’t there - it wasn’t nearly chaotic enough to be a proper introduction to how Milly runs things.”

Akira smirked a little, “I… saw the introduction she set up for me, y’know. I think I’ve got a pretty good idea how she thinks.” Ann and Shirley exchanged a look, suppressed snorts. He must’ve noticed, nervously adjusting his glasses, “Or not?”

“Definitely not,” Ann smirked.

“Absolutely not,” Shirley giggled, “Akira, you poor thing.”

“Don’t worry - _too_ much,” Ann added, “Shirley and I’ll protect you.”

“Thanks - I’ll need all the help I can get,” he smirked, “And obviously I’ll do what I can to return the favor.”

There was too much of a note of seriousness in his voice. For a second, Ann thought of their first encounter yesterday. And his introduction to Kamoshida.

She wished Shirley wasn’t here so she could warn him against that line of thought.

‘ _Whatever you can do won’t be enough. All it’ll do is make trouble for you._ ’ Ann couldn’t disguise that as something playful and fun.

Even though she was oblivious, Shirley could, puffing up with mock importance, “Ann and I’ve been playing this game for a while, Akira. We can take care of ourselves.”

He held up his hands, backing up slightly, “Of course. Still though.”

He needed to cut out those ‘still thoughs’ before they got him hurt.

“Anyway…” he continued, looking briefly this way and that. They were starting to draw onlookers. Most of the sports teams would be getting out. And wouldn’t a boatload of boys high on testosterone be curious to see the Eleven delinquent imposing himself on two Britannian girls. Ann always seemed to morph into a Britannian girl whenever it was convenient - and right back into a silly European when it wasn’t anymore, “I would love to stay and chat, but I might fall down if I don’t lay down.”

Only a slight exaggeration, by Ann’s estimate. She nodded some, “Get some rest, Akira.”

He gave a lazy little salute of acknowledgement, turned and started off toward the dance hall. With a half-wave, he returned Shirley’s obnoxious, “ _Ja ne, Akira-kun_!”

Ann averted her gaze, held up her hand to her eyes in an ‘I’m not with her’ gesture for anyone curious. Through gritted teeth, she said, “You are gonna get that boy _killed_ , Shirley.”

“Oh lighten up,” she said, completely missing the point, “If people see that members of the student council like Akira, maybe they’ll start to trust him a little more.”

Of course she had some kind of bright and sunny reasoning. She didn’t have any reason to assume that maybe there might be anything uglier that people might think. That wasn’t something _she’d_ ever had to worry about. 

But Shirley always, _always_ assumed that silence was agreement. So she perked up, holding open the door to the gym as if she’d won something. They didn’t lose much for spaciousness, going inside: Britannian ceilings were so much higher than anything in Europe. It was a wonder nobody seemed to get vertigo. Ann generally looked down too much to risk it.

They stopped briefly - mostly against Ann’s will - to peek in at the volleyball team. They were running late again, but one of the shorter freshmen girls had a crazy jump. Shirley was trying to snipe her for the swim team as a diver. 

Volleyball bored the hell out of Ann as a matter of principle. So she used the lull in conversation to try and arm herself for the next round. 

They weren’t playing an even game, that was the whole problem. Shirley had all of Britannia’s party lines and doctored science to back her up. All Ann really had was a gut feeling about what was right and wrong, and how the world tended to receive each.

She didn’t need Shirley to turn into some bomb throwing radical. She just wanted her to be more than a Loyal Subject.

It was like moving a mountain.

When she was ready to move along, Shirley might’ve forgotten what they’d been talking about entirely. Her eyes shone like stars, and all Ann could think of was Milly before she unveiled some ridiculous scheme, “It just blows me away every time I see it! I swear, if she gets just a little taller, she’ll be a _swan_ , Ann! A _swan_!”

Ann snorted, poked a tiny hole in her sail, “Or the volleyball team’s best spiker?”

“Xanthe is _wasted_ on that team!” probably, honestly, “Kamoshida- _sensei_ ’s never gonna put her _in_ , he just likes seeing everyone get a chance at practice.”

There wasn’t anything that Ann wanted to say about that that she really felt like she could. So she swallowed it instead. The two of them rounded the corner, and a small complement of three custodians scrambled to their feet.

Ashford cleaning staff got surprisingly fancy outfits, given the tasks they’d be performing. They took the sleek edges of the students’ uniforms and just removed pigment - and swapped gold for blue on the trim for the boys. Japanese janitors were _never_ going to get the same amount of glitz as Britannian schoolchildren.

Shiho and her coworkers still looked sharp, though. The two boys she was working with stayed in their practically waist-deep bows - Shiho, though, relaxed when she saw Ann, slinging a mop over her shoulder like some kind of lance, “Ann- _chan_. You’re done early.” In Japanese, she said over her shoulder, “Ann’s cool, guys. Go try and mop something before someone who isn’t strolls by.”

They straightened. One of them muttered, “If Mr. Honorary Jackass would get out of the gym…”

“Mr. Honorary Jackass teaches Japanese here too, genius,” Shiho said sweetly.

Sweetly because Kamoshida didn’t teach it well enough that Shirley could understand her yet. So tone was everything to her.

Ann kept her own sugary (if a little more genuinely so), responding in Japanese, “Shiho- _chan_! I was wondering when we’d run into each other again. I was starting to think you quit.”

She smirked, jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the boys, ‘hard at work’ scrubbing uselessly at floors they’d already cleaned, “Someone has to keep these guys in line, right?”

Ann smirked, “Maybe we should switch jobs!”

Shiho snorted, “You’d be a _terrible_ cleaner, Ann- _chan_.”

“Well, I can be a hell of a slave driver when I want to be!” As soon as the quip was out of her mouth, Ann regretted it, “Wait. I don’t-”

Before Shiho could say anything to that, Shirley came to the rescue. To her credit, she had stayed quiet throughout most of the exchange, despite obviously not catching a word. Loudly and just a little obnoxiously, she inserted herself by Ann’s side, “ _Konnichiwa, Shiho-kun_!” Having exhausted her Japanese, she switched immediately to English. Ann fought her embarrassment: her Britannian friend got slower and louder whenever she talked to her Japanese one, “Ann and I were just talking about you!”

Shiho’s lip quirked. Ann could never tell if she found Shirley amusing or just annoying. It was a shame: they’d actually probably get along if they could just meet as peers.

As it was, Shiho clearly felt like she had to put on the mask of a subservient Eleven maid, even with the students. She bowed demurely, swapped effortlessly into English, “Shirley- _chan_ , your Japanese is getting so _good_!” A part of Ann wanted to tell Shiho off for making fun of her. But on the other hand, in a way, Shirley was just getting what she deserved. And what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Covering her mouth in a fake, modest giggle, Shiho added, “About me? Only good things I hope?”

“What else could we have to say?” Shirley said it so earnestly. It was evidence that she didn’t really _know_ Shiho, or she’d know how sharp that tongue could be. 

One day, Shiho was going to finally say something openly caustic to Shirley. She’d make fun of her stupid crush on Lelouch or something like that. And Shirley was finally going to shriek protest. She would say something along the lines of, ‘you’re the worst, Shiho!’ and it was going to make Ann so much happier than any of these façades the two of them shared ever would.

For now, Shiho instead smiled wide and fake, and said, “ _Arigatou gozaimasu_. Do you know that one, Shirley- _chan_? It means-”

“Thank you!” Shirley finished, beaming at her own knowledge. Shiho steepled her fingers at her lips, playing the proud mama. It also had the added benefit of hiding her smirk, which was getting just a little nasty. Ann hoped Shirley was just oblivious: if she noticed, that said something new and uncomfortable about her friend, “Pretty soon, maybe I’ll even be able to keep up with you and Ann!”

Shiho gave Ann a sidelong look, and her voice was honey as she said in Japanese, “I won’t hold my breath.” In English she ‘translated,’ “Here’s hoping!”

Shirley was delighted, repeating, “I won’t hold my breath!” Shiho almost broke, but luckily the redhead was distractible. A chorus of groaning, weary conversation rang out as the doors to the gym opened. The girls’ volleyball team, finally released. Shirley’s face lit up, “Ann, don’t wait up - I’m gonna try and talk with Xanthe. It was good to see you, Shiho- _kun_!”

And she just left without waiting for any kind of response, humming like someone without a care in the world. Ann took a breath. Sometimes, watching her go was like what being a mom dropping her kid off at pre-school must’ve been like. She hoped she didn’t go and hit her head on something.

Her absence let the mood grow heavy again. Ann looked at Shiho, returning to Japanese, “Hey, when I said-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shiho said simply.

“Okay, but I don’t think that you’re-” the thought wasn’t fully formed. She didn’t know if it was going to end with ‘a slave driver’ or ‘a slave.’

And she didn’t have to find out: “Oh my God, Ann, _don’t worry about it_ ,” Shiho said again. She offered a smile - a real one, not the bright and chipper mask for Britannia. You could see how tired she was, and Ann appreciated the honesty, “I know what you meant.”

“Okay,” she murmured, and hoped that it was.

Shiho checked up and down the hallway before she gave Ann’s shoulder a playful punch, “Follow me, dummy. Brit kids’ll ask questions if you’re talking to an Eleven.” And Shiho might get fired for slacking on the job. She called to one of the boys, “Mishima- _san_! Cover for me!” The more nondescript of them came to a brief salute, Shiho smirked, “At ease.”

In keeping with Britannian extravagance, the gym had a lot more rooms than you’d expect. Nevermind that it housed three separate basketball courts worth of space, as well as the vast fields surrounding it. There was also the near-unused derby track outside (the equestrian team preferred just riding in all of Ashford’s open fields, to the eternal chagrin of all other clubs), the olympic swimming pool, and a smaller one in the basement, though from Shirley’s reports the team usually used the one with the view outside. And there were a few dozen classrooms, though Ann had never actually had a class here. No one ever seemed to.

So she and Shiho ducked into one of those. It looked like any of the other rooms might have after summer break - vaguely abandoned, the seats neatly tucked away at the rows of tables. The chalkboard was a pristine green, as if no one had ever written on it. The chalk was probably fossilized by now anyway.

Ann wrinkled her nose at the waste of space, leaned back on one of the tables, “So are you guys just really thorough or do they just not use these rooms?”

Shiho leaned back against the wall by the doorway - better to resume work if someone came in, huffed with false pride, “I’ll have you know the Ashford Academy Janitorial Staff is _super_ thorough!” Ann held up her hands, surrendering the point, and Shiho smiled again, “How’s council stuff?”

“Milly is _crazy_.”

“So the same?”

“Pretty much,” Ann laughed, and regaled her friend with, essentially, the minutes of the day’s student council meeting. It might not have been the most productive one, but it at least seemed entertaining to Shiho.

She sighed at the very idea that Ashford was just going to hire someone from the royal retinue for celebrations on the tenth, “Milly _is_ crazy. Now you’ve got me wishing _our_ student council could pull things like that off. I don’t even know if we’re _doing_ anything for V11 Day.”

“Come to ours!” Ann said, swinging her leg, _thunking_ her shoes against the leg of the table, “I’ve got a spare uniform - no one’ll know the difference!”

Shiho shrugged noncommittally, “Maybe. I’ll get back to you when I get my schedule for that week?”

Ann scrunched up her face, but nodded in understanding. Couldn’t exactly be a guest if you were supposed to be staff. Still, it felt like Shiho was _always_ working, “Remember to find time for sleep?”

“Eh, I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she said, and Ann tried to imagine being that dedicated to anything. From what she understood, Shiho balanced school and another job with this, “Or when I get _out_.”

There was something so mysterious to the way she said that. It intrigued Ann, “Prospects?”

Shiho winked, “Secrets.”

Gasp, “Between friends!?”

Shiho’s mouth hung teasingly open, holding back the revelation until the last second, “So… I can’t go into too much detail, but if I play my cards right, you might soon be looking at an Honorary Britannian.”

That _was_ big news. Every day she worked (which, again, seemed like every day), Shiho had to come back and forth from the Shinjuku ghetto. Numbers couldn’t live in the Settlement, or anywhere else Britannia said they couldn’t. But Britannians could go where they wanted, within reason. Even ones who’d previously been Numbers.

“Are… are you joining the military?” she asked tentatively. It was hard to imagine.

Shiho sputtered laughter, “ _Ann_.”

“Well…?” Ann protested without much to back it up. That was the main way Numbers turned into Britannians, right? So unless Shiho had met a duke somewhere between here and the ghetto…

Or better, “I might get to meet the viceroy soon.”

“Wait, for real?” Ann practically fell from her perch. Her eyes must’ve been comically huge, “Prince Clovis??”

Shiho held a finger to her lips, as if anyone was listening (or as if half of the people who could have been would have understood), “There’s nothing official yet. But wouldn’t it be a coup?” She smiled wistfully, “That’s a ticket out of Shinjuku, if I can swing it.”

Ann would have to take her word for it. But that sounded like something the prince of Britannia could do. If he could use his magical powers to transform individuals into Loyal Subjects, surely he could use them for good here?

All Shiho could see was the light at the end of the tunnel: could she even start to plan around the new opportunities that would be open to her?

Whatever she went for, she deserved them. She’d worked hard enough. Ann knew she was grinning like an idiot, and it wasn’t even her own success, but she didn’t care, “That’s awesome, Shiho.”

Shiho laughed nervously, rubbed the back of her head, “It’s nothing official yet, Ann. Don’t get so excited, it’s embarrassing.”

Before Ann could respond, sudden, triumphant English, “Ann- _chan_! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

And in the worst of all possible turns of events, there stood Kamoshida in the doorway. He strode into the classroom, hands on hips like some dumb comic book hero, and a hush fell over her and Shiho. A reminder that whatever good things might’ve been coming, for now… well, this was the best they had.

Shiho just _shrank_ back into that subservient mask. Ann wasn’t even sure it _was_ a mask with him. She didn’t know the extent of how Kamoshida treated the Eleven staff - from what Shiho had hinted, it was worse than any of the other, fully Britannian teachers.

Maybe it was a feeling like he had something to prove before them. Fragile male ego. It was on full display as he jerked a thumb to the door, face suddenly dangerous, “Eleven. Out.”

It was the strangest thing to hear that order in Japanese. Wasn’t the point of using it that he was supposed to have ascended beyond that, or whatever? 

Shiho barely even nodded. She spared Ann one worried look, then fled when that look went on too long, and Kamoshida snapped his fingers.

Ann was quick to get to her feet, already surveying the situation. It wasn’t good: cornered in a room that nobody went to by a man that nobody suspected. That instant switch for him, from icy glare to wide grin, was almost creepier than either look itself was, “I thought I saw Fenette- _chan_ earlier. Figured you couldn’t be far behind.” Kamoshida cocked his head to the side, and Ann tried her best to ignore his eyes on her, “You weren’t even going to stop by to see me? I’m hurt.”

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” she said curtly, starting toward the door. If she just moved with enough purpose…

“If you have time for one of the maids, you have time for me,” he said. He didn’t budge an inch. He would just get what he wanted or she wouldn’t leave. Kamoshida smirked, “You know, if you just gave me your number, we wouldn’t have to keep hoping we bump into each other like this.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“You really _will_ , won’t you?” Suddenly, she was up against the wall, Kamoshida’s arm pinned just above her head. God, he was _huge_. And close. And suddenly, terrifying, no matter _how_ gentle he tried to make his voice, “I worry about you, Ann- _chan_. Really, I barely slept last night worried about what that delinquent from the ghetto might’ve done to you. Or the company you keep - Shiho’s got a hell of a mouth on her.”

“ _Don’t_.” She couldn’t meet his gaze - at least not at the same time that she kept herself strong, “Don’t talk about Shiho. Or Shirley. Or even Akira. We both know you aren’t _interested_ in any of them.”

He chuckled, let his hand slide onto her jawline, tilting her head up. Ann did the actual moving herself so that she wouldn’t have to think about the fact that he could just play with her like a doll.

Kamoshida didn’t even try to hide his leering, this close and this private, “You think that just because you’re from the EU, Area 11’s rules don’t apply to you. They do.” He smirked, and his eyes seemed to cloud over with… something, “Here in Britannia, the strong eat the weak. You’ve done so well for so long, pretending to be strong, Ann. But you can only do so much for so long.” 

For just a moment, he looked like a _person_ , and that only made it worse. How could another person just _treat someone_ like this? “I’m the only one who knows the real you. I know what it is to be besieged. If you let me, I can protect you. I can-”

“I’ll scream,” she warned, trying to keep the waver from her voice, “Take your hand off me or I promise your _haven_ here won’t be the only thing you lose.”

Bastard. He only smirked, kept his grip and his eyes on her. She shivered, and he purred, “You’re probably right. Assuming nobody thinks this is just a lover’s spat. Or have you not heard the rumors?” Ann had. But this had to be a case - the _one_ case - where Britannian racism might actually be _good_ for her. 

He watched her run those numbers as he stroked her cheek in a cruel mockery of affection. “You’re cute when you’re trying to outplay me,” he said dryly. He leaned in, and for a horrible second Ann thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he put his lips right by her ear. Ann could feel hot breath on her as he whispered, “How about this, then. I can make things easy here for you. Or, if you try and burn me, I can make sure everyone in this school finds out you’re an Eleven. So go ahead: scream. We can go down together.”

 _Click_.

How could a camera sound like the world ending? Someone could’ve set Kamoshida on fire for how quickly he pulled back, reared on the doorway. Ann was frozen stiff herself, looking with horrified eyes at where Akira Kurusu stood, phone in hand. 

_You stupid idiot, stop getting involved!_ Ann could see it on Kamoshida’s face, almost white with fury (and maybe some small measure of fear). The same sentiment burned in her - though another part breathed a sigh of relief that finally someone, _someone_ had seen the Kamoshida that she knew.

Now if it could only be someone who had the slightest bit of clout, anywhere in the world.

Akira gulped, managed a dry, “I was just checking my phone…” he gestured awkwardly behind him, “The… dance hall, where I’m staying is locked, and I don’t have a key yet.”

Kamoshida growled - in Japanese, that’s how angry he was, “Delete that, dumbass.”

A part of Ann hoped he did, for his sake - but wouldn’t it also be beautiful for the three of them all to go up in flames together here?

Akira showed his phone. Incidental pictures from around campus, preceded by similar ones from what must’ve been one of the ghettos. He said, carefully, “There’s nothing to delete, sir. I didn’t see anything either, because there was _nothing to see_ , right?”

He had looked so genuinely lost a moment ago. Where did he get off, with that stony warning expression? What did he think he was going to do?

Kamoshida sized the boy up - visibly considered just laying him out right there. Instead, he said - slowly, certainly, “Cross me one more time, hero. You won’t even _see_ a jail cell again.”

Akira’s lips trembled. It didn’t look like fear - or not just fear, anyway. He was finally seeing some sense, biting something back. He must’ve wanted the last word so badly.

All it would be was the same kind of reckless posturing that had just put him on Kamoshida’s radar.

Ann tensed as Kamoshida stalked toward the boy. There were no more words between the two of them - just a kind of silent mutual loathing. For a moment, she was terrified one of them was going to throw a punch. Whichever one it was, the result would pretty clearly be the same. 

Then instead, Kamoshida just looked back over his shoulder at her. His mask was firmly back on, but the grin searing through it, was all the real him, “Well. I’ll be seeing you, Ann- _chan_.”

And he _would_ , too. This was just a reprieve. Ann wished she could cry. Reacting at all, though, only would mean he’d win.

Kamoshida didn’t wait for any kind of response. He simply turned away, shoulder checked his way through Akira, and went about his day. Maybe he was less relaxed than he’d expected to be. That felt like a hollow victory.

When he was gone, Ann allowed herself to sink down on the wall, pulling her legs to her chest. She closed her eyes, wished for just a moment she could be alone. Ah, but there was Akira rushing to her side. She didn’t look at him, just said flatly, “You shouldn't have gotten involved. But thank you,” she sighed, “Again.”

He took in a breath, as if about to say something. Instead, he joined her on the floor, sitting cross-legged, back to one of the tables across from her. Akira considered her for honestly a moment too long, then said, “If you don’t want to-”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ann said, quickly. Only she did. But she also wanted to forget it had ever happened. And she wanted it to go away forever, disappearing like any other bad dream, “It wouldn’t do any good.”

Akira nodded in understanding, although his furrowed brow didn’t at all. He pressed, “There’s… _people_ we could go to about this. The school, or the police, or…” he trailed off. Squeezed his knee instead of clenching a fist, “… you don’t have to just suffer.”

“This is the furthest he’s ever gone,” Ann said, as if that made it better. There was cold logic to it, though, “And you and I are the only witnesses. If I report him, there’ll be an investigation.” She looked up at the ceiling, and could see the sequence of events along the bright fluorescents, “He’ll either spend a little time under house arrest for that, or they won’t take it seriously enough to stop him teaching classes. Then they’ll find out about the _rumors_ about me and Kamoshida, and assume that they’re true. So anything I say’ll just look like it was just a bad breakup or something. As for you… well…” she shrugged, “I mean, no offense…”

He took the implication, finished, “In my experience, my word doesn’t have much weight in court.”

“Right…” Akira would have gone down a road like this before. Ann had almost forgotten, “… and once you and I are fully discredited, he comes back. And the whole thing becomes a new tool in his kit: ‘oh, remember that time that that _slut_ Ann Takamäki falsely accused Kamoshida? Look how he’s risen beyond that!’”

“Okay, but what the fuck!” Akira leaned toward her. Ann could recognize his frustration: she felt it, “I’m an Eleven, so I can’t _do_ anything. That’s…. _fine_. But so’s he! How’s he able to-”

“Because it’s his castle,” Ann said bitterly, “Because Kamoshida found a way to turn Ashford Academy into his own personal castle, and he can hide in it and rule over it as he sees fit.”

Akira wanted the chance for the last word again. He needed to learn that some battles you didn’t win - you only mitigated. You couldn’t make everyone understand how you thought. You couldn’t change everyone. Sometimes you couldn’t even _stop_ everyone. He sank back down under the weight of that, “… it’s wrong.”

“I know,” Ann said, gentler. Wishing you could help but knowing you can’t… that was an all-too-familiar feeling.

“It feels more like you’re comforting me when it should be the other way around,” Akira’s smile was weak, as was the levity he tried to cram into his voice, “I’m sorry.”

Ann waved him off, “You don’t have to worry about me, Akira. I can take care of myself.” She’d said that yesterday too. How well that turned out. She had a better fake smile - the better to put on a magazine, “Hey, Ashford’s a big place. I can usually avoid getting… cornered like that.”

It didn’t even convince herself.

Or Akira, no matter how he nodded along with her. He grimaced, “If there’s ever anything I _can_ do… I don’t know… let me?”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the help, Akira. I do. But your own situation is…” there must’ve been delicate ways to put it. All of them escaped Ann.

But he knew where she was going. “Yeah,” He _thunked_ the back of his head on a table leg, glared at the ceiling, “Don’t I know it.”

“I just don’t want you getting hurt or…” Kamoshida couldn’t possibly have the kind of pull to get Akira thrown back in prison. But he knew how to work Ashford’s students to his advantage. _Something_ might happen.

Akira smirked, and Ann couldn’t help but treasure the glimmer of mirth, however arrogant, “Hey, you’re not the only one who can take care of themselves.”

She snorted. He laughed. Both of them were such liars. Weird that they should be able to be so honest with each other, then.

“Hey…” for just a word, Ann was going to tell him. Then a year of practice caught up, and she changed course. Plus, she was pretty sure he knew already, “… were you lying when you said Lulu forgot to give you a key?”

Akira groaned, “Honestly, I wish.”

She made a disgusted noise, and rebuilt a crumbling wall, “How can somebody so smart be so scatterbrained?”

“I’ll ask if I ever find him.”

Ann sighed, getting up and offering her hand, “C’mon. Let’s get you a key.” Akira took it, and she pulled him to his feet. He stretched a little, and Ann was surprised how much was cracking and popping into place, “Seriously, are they just killing you for physical training?”

“Maybe?” he shrugged, “It’s mostly on me - didn’t sleep much. Weird dreams.”

“Oh?” eager for a distraction, Ann leapt on that one, heading for the door, “What kind of… weird…”

And she trailed off. For just a moment, Akira was looking at her - looking as confused as she felt. Then he saw where she was looking.

The gym was gone. In its place, a waterway ran through a dimly lit tunnel, through rusted metal grates and around cages that hung above and within the makeshift river. The walls were cobbled stones, the ground beneath their feet a mix of the same and bare earth. Sick smells hung on the air.

Akira and Ann looked at each other, at a loss for words. Faintly, just within hearing, there was the clatter of chains. And echoing off the walls, so distant it could have been imagined, Ann could hear screaming.


	4. Awakening

**August 5, 2017 A.T.B. - Akira**

It could’ve just been a dream. It wouldn’t even be the weirdest one Akira had had in the last few days. Next to waking up in a cell, guarded by two one eyed children, while a booming, toucan beaked old man told him to prepare for ruin, this was nothing. As dreams went, this was just a somewhat familiar, mundane place abruptly becoming strange and hostile. And really, wasn’t it just strange and hostile in reality? It was just the symbolism of dreams.

Even as he tried to rationalize it to himself, Akira knew he was fighting a losing battle. There was still that ache in his muscles. Everything was bizarre, but visceral and real. And it all just didn’t _feel_ like a dream.

So he gulped and proceeded to state the obvious, “This… isn’t the school.”

He stepped out of the classroom into the… dungeon? The air felt both musty and damp - as if they actually _were_ underground. Iron barred cages lay scattered around haphazardly. Was the rust from lack of use or lack of care?

There was the faintest spatter of red by one of the nearest ones. Lack of care, then.

Wide eyed and cautious, Ann followed him. Her eyes were everywhere - and in that sense, much like his own. Maybe if they saw more of it, they’d be able to figure out how this space was possible.

Lamely, she offered, “Is it… some kind of prank?” Akira just looked at her. She flushed, embarrassed, “Well… I dunno! This is impossible, right?!”

“Definitely,” he said. There was this feeling of foreboding coming over the air - Akira wasn’t sure that it was _all_ because of the distant screaming. Something was wrong here. Beyond the obvious displacement. Though that was also concerning. But it wouldn’t help to think too hard on either, so Akira didn’t, “I guess we try and find our way out?”

Ann smiled nervously. This all must’ve been useful for her - a handy way to set aside their (her, really) run-in with Kamoshida, “You’re really taking this in stride.”

He shrugged. Half of his life was dealing with whatever the world threw at him anyway. So this was a curveball: big deal.

And he could tell himself that as much as he liked. And he could try and mimic a relaxed slouch as much as he wanted. It wasn’t going to stop his hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. Or the pounding in his heart.

Despite his nerves, Akira led the way. Ann was clearly freaking out too: she kept looking this way and that like a scared rabbit. She’d had enough day-to-day horror already, he could handle the weird for them. They kept close together, moving in the opposite direction of the waterway. That felt more likely to be the way out - it had to be flowing from somewhere, right? Probably somewhere outside. Not that ‘probably’ meant much, suddenly transported from Ashford to a dungeon. All bets were off now.

“Do you think…” Ann was still trying to make sense of the senseless. She hit a wall, because there really wasn’t a good answer for what exactly had happened. That didn’t stop her from trying, “Maybe your parole officer slipped you something? As… I dunno, an experiment? And maybe I got a contact high…?”

She was trying so hard. And it wasn’t like he had an alternative explanation. Still, Akira scrunched his face, “That seems a little… I dunno. Like a conspiracy theory?”

Ann puffed out a cheek, irritation creeping into her voice, “Okay, then what happened!?”

“How should I know?”

“Well _something_ must’ve! Schools don’t just… just turn into castle dungeons!” There was nothing really to say to that: past experience had always told Akira the same.

He was pretty sure they were getting closer to a way out. Water was rushing louder and faster, like they were reaching the source. The walls were increasingly better kept, as were the cages (which in turn were less prolific). And the screams were fading.

It felt a little wrong to not even investigate the sounds the two of them were hearing. Akira told himself that they weren’t even sure that they _were_ screams. It could’ve just been the wind, and their surreal surroundings playing tricks on their minds.

They rounded a corner, and Akira stopped in his tracks, because they’d just run into the first person they’d seen since arriving. If indeed this was a person.

The figure would probably have stood a solid seven feet tall upright. It hunched too much for that, bent forward in a way that almost looked inhuman. It wore a black suit of armor, nicked and scratched, dulled from use. The broadsword it carried looked similarly worn, as did the massive shield it stood behind. Its face was hidden behind a blank teal mask.

Or maybe that was its face? Because that was where Akira saw the recognition when the figure called out, “Who goes there? What are you doing out of your cells?” Its voice was bizarrely two-toned, as if someone had put it through some kind of modulator.

“What the…” Ann breathed, gripping onto Akira’s shoulder. He held out an arm to shield her, which felt absolutely foolish the second he thought about it. What was he going to do, fight a knight?

He couldn’t even beat one civil servant, or one jumped up teacher.

And there wasn’t just one of these strange, shadowy figures: more ran up behind the first. They had an odd, hobbling gait - their legs seemed just a little too small for their broad bodies. Even weirder, they all seemed to have the same posture.

“Prisoners, identify yourselves!” one shouted, a familiar refrain. Akira had half a mind to go for his pass card.

Instead, he held up his hands, de-escalated, “Listen, we’re just lost.” He approached slowly, carefully, hands raised, “Can you help us find the way out? We’re not prisoners.”

“Akira, what are you doing?!” Ann hissed. He had no idea.

The first figure moved toward Akira, “Not prisoners?” They were only a few feet away. Maybe it was the lighting, but Akira still couldn’t see any hint of a face behind the expressionless mask. Lowly, dangerously, it growled, “Intruders, then?”

“No, not intruders. I mean, not deli-” before Akira had a chance to finish, the knight lashed out with its shield, and he was on the ground, seeing stars.

Ann let out a shocked cry, desperately adding, “Wait, you don’t understand, we’re not-”

They were no more inclined to listen to her than to Akira. Yet more of them came trundling up behind Ann - they were surrounded. The first, keeping its sword pointed down at where Akira lay, shouted, “Seize them! Don’t let them escape!”

There was a part of Akira that was more resigned to being arrested and brutalized again than he was scared. It was an increasingly small part. He started to get up - the right move was to surrender again, go quietly. And he had to demonstrate that before Ann got herself hurt.

But all it got him was hit again. This time, the blow was hard enough that he escaped to merciful black.

* * *

The first sensation to come back was the ringing in his ears. As its whine faded away, shapes and colors came back, which refined into proper sight in short order. It didn’t stop the throbbing in his head.

He’d woke up on a tattered straw mat laid out on cobbled stone flooring. The ceiling and three walls were made of similar stuff. All were lined with chains that sometimes seemed to serve a function (as the rusted cuffs linked into the walls did), and others just crisscrossed decoratively. The last wall was iron bars.

Absurdly, Akira’s first instinct was to smile bitterly. This made three cells now - two since starting rehabilitation.

At least this time he had company. Ann was clearly far less amused. She clutched at the bars of their cell, shrilly shrieking, “You can’t do this! You can’t just arrest us for no reason!” She slapped a hand against the cell door, a metallic clattering accompanying her shouts, “I’m a citizen of the European Ultraunion and I demand to be taken to an embassy! Let us out!!!”

Akira groaned and rubbed at his temple. Ann must’ve happened to catch the noise, because she whirled around. Her eyes were wild - definitely that hunted animal look. She let out a breath, “Oh thank God, you’re up. I thought…”

He probably wasn’t quite up to a cocky smirk - he definitely wasn’t feeling the one that he put on. But he tried anyway: put on a brave face for his companion. Pulling himself to his feet, he instantly killed any chance of looking cool by how his multiplying aches and pains wracked over him. Wincing, he looked about the cell again - he didn’t like the look of the wooden device in the corner. Binds dangled from each of four corners as they rose into a single point, like a steep pyramid. It might have been sharp once, but it was too discolored now. He also wasn’t a fan of the Akira sized cage dangling like a punching bag in another corner.

And the screams were back - too loud to be ignored.

Something clicked in his mind. Despite his weariness, he quickly made his way across the room, looked Ann over, “Are you alright? They haven’t…?”

“What?” Oh…” Ann put on that fake smile again, waved that off. How could she _still_ be playing it off like she was fine? Weren’t they both supremely, demonstrably _not_ fine now? “I,” she paused, embarrassed, to wet her lip, “I went quietly after they knocked you out. I’m sorry, I should’ve-”

“No, I get it,” he said, genuinely meaning it, “No use in both of us getting-”

Ann cut him off with a conceding noise that she must’ve known noticeably meant the opposite. The fight was either out of her, or resting while they regrouped. She slid back down the wall, hugged her legs to her again, “This day just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said, gripping the bars to look out. They seemed to be more or less where they’d started: there was that waterway again. At least they had a bit a view: in the torchlight (there were _torches_ on the walls, where _were_ they!?) there were dim sparks of color where the base of a miniature waterfall lay. It, like so much else, was just a few feet beyond their reach. Without looking back in, he asked, “Did they take us back down, or…?”

“Yeah. I think we’re further down, or… I dunno.” She looked up at him, and Akira hoped he was imagining the wetness in her eyes. He had no idea what he was going to do if she just broke, “… you’re just… pretending you’re not scared, right? I’m not the _only_ one freaking out about this?”

He almost laughed. Instead, he said, “Ann, obviously I’m terrified.”

“Well… good.” she shook her head, “No, wait, not good. It’s just, like, I dunno. I’m glad that I’m not the one being irrational.”

Akira assumed she meant the _situation_ was irrational. Not his calm. Why should he panic? It’s not like the way he felt about things ever actually affected how they played out.

“My parents have a good lawyer,” Ann said apropos of nothing. Akira closed his eyes, shook once with his attempt to keep from laughing, “Once we get out of this, they’ll turn this into an international incident. Britannia can’t just get away with-”

“Ann, you don’t _actually_ think this is Britannia, right?” he hoped he wasn’t looking too condescending right now. It wouldn’t do to lose his only lifeline in this, whatever _this_ actually was.

She threw up her hands, “Well, Akira, I was just in my _Britannian_ school in a _Britannian_ city in a _Britannian_ province, so yeah, I think I’m in Britannia!”

“No, no,” he said, gently, “That’s not what I mean.” He turned back into the cell, gestured to its expanse as he sat by Ann’s side, “It’s just… Britannian jail doesn’t _look_ like this.”

She blinked. He smiled awkwardly. That was distinctly the look of someone who was reassessing him. Carefully, Ann asked, “So… you _did_ actually end up in prison? That wasn’t just a rumor?”

Akira sighed. The best thing for this was honesty: any sane person would see that he wasn’t in the wrong in his case. It was just because they had an insane world that so few people _did_ see, “Yeah. After I was found guilty in the first trial, they officially locked me up to wait for the possibility of retrial. I’d just been on house arrest before that.”

“The first trial?”

“You _don’t_ want to know about my case, Ann,” he said flatly. Realizing how that sounded, he added, “It’s… boring. And stupid.”

She still had that look. Akira bet now she was thinking, ‘Oh, wait a minute, am I locked up with a dangerous criminal?’ Sure enough, she asked, “What exactly did you _do_? I’ve heard a lot of things.”

“Nothing,” he said, because it was true. But because it wasn’t enough, he said, “I pulled a drunk guy off a woman calling for help. He got hurt, and it turned out he’s in government.” He dismissed the injustice of that with a shrug.

It seemed to relax Ann, though. Or at least, allay whatever worries she’d cooked up about him, “That’s… stupid.”

“And boring, I told you,” Akira forced an embarrassed smile, “Well, I was only in jail for a few weeks, I didn’t get the full experience,” he said, deadpan. No snort. How disappointing. He leaned back, his head cradled only slightly uncomfortably by bars, “Britannian jail is cleaner than this.”

That only got a quirk of the lips, but that would do, given the circumstances, “It couldn’t really be much dirtier.”

“Right?” Akira gestured to each of the walls in turn, “All of that would be white. We wouldn’t be able to see the lights, but they’d be kept bright basically all the time.” He clunked his knuckles against the bars, “And that’d be plexiglass.”

“So… they just kept you in a padded cell the whole time?” Ann asked.

“Nah, no padding. It was metal,” Akira said. He hoped he was being flippant enough about this. The whole point of talking about his past cell was to distract her from their present one, “And smaller. No view… more guards…” he shrugged, “This is basically cake in comparison.” Ann gave him a look, and he said it again, “ _In comparison_. I’m not saying I want to stick around long.”

To demonstrate as much, he got to his feet, jiggling each of the bars to their cell as much as he could. Disappointingly, that wasn’t much: they might’ve looked worn and old, but they stayed pretty solidly in place despite his efforts. Akira schooled his face, didn’t let his concern show, “Did you get a chance to see if there was any way out of here before I woke up?”

That was a dumb question, he realized. Ann looked up at him as if to say the same thing. She was merciful when she said, “If I had, we wouldn’t still be in here, Akira.” There was no implied ‘you idiot,’ it was just a statement of fact.

The bars officially were a no go: none of them were budging. Akira put his hands on his hips, looking the pyramid-like torture device up and down, “Could we… use this as a battering ram?”

“It’s bolted down,” Ann said with a sigh, getting to her feet. She brushed some dirt off of her uniform leggings, “That was actually the first thing I thought of.”

Akira rubbed the back of his neck. Could there be some kind of secret passage? Or maybe something they could pick the door’s lock with? It looked like an old fashioned padlock - apparently wherever they were hadn’t made Britannia’s jump to electronic security, “Do you have bobby pins or something?”

Ann’s brow furrowed, “Akira, why would I have bobby pins?”

Akira gave her luxurious blonde hair a once over, and shrugged. She rolled her eyes, which he supposed was fair. He crouched to better examine the lock, snaking his arm through the bars to see if he could get enough of a hand on it, “I might be able to pick this, if I-”

He let out a cry as there was a sudden stabbing pain. He didn’t know when the armored guards had returned - or how they’d managed to do so so quietly. But he did know that one of them had a hold on him, its gauntleted fingers stabbing into his wrist as it raised him back to his feet.

Still holding him, it cleared the way, and Akira let out a gasp - some combination of pain, shock, and confusion.

The figure that strode toward the cell wasn’t quite the monstrous size of the guards, but it still towered over Akira. He hadn’t thought that Kamoshida could look more smug either of the times they’d butted heads at Ashford.

Here, though, he was distinctly proven wrong.

Kamoshida wore an extravagant fur cape, all reds and pinks with a repeating heart pattern, that came down just short of his knees. And aside from an altogether too-tight pair of pink briefs, that was all. No, not all: there was the crown. It was gold, and looked something like a child’s drawing come to life. It seemed to pull him upward: despite his ridiculous getup, Kamoshida stood taller, prouder than Akira had ever seen him.

His eyes seemed to spark, golden in the dark. Akira wasn’t sure if that was real or his own nervous imagination.

Kamoshida - if this was really him - grinned, and Akira felt something sink in his stomach, “We meet again, hero.”

Wit failed Akira, and he settled instead for an inarticulate grunt. Ann was similarly lost for words, barely sputtering, “Kamoshida?! What are you…?” as she shrank back from the cell door. Akira fumbled in vain with the vice grip on his wrist.

Kamoshida, for a wonder, paid Ann little mind. “Good girls wait their turn,” he said without looking at her, his tone ice. His eyes were still locked on Akira’s. There was that familiar look: ‘ _Just try and do something, Eleven._ ’ It made him want to spit in his face, and damn the consequences. And that must’ve shown: “There’s that look again… didn’t I warn you already in the real world, dumbass?”

The real world?

Akira didn’t have long to question that: the guard holding him in place had smacked his forehead with the pommel of its sword. He stumbled back, a hand going to the injury, as Kamoshida gestured for the door to be opened. The guards obeyed his unspoken commands, and he strode into the cell, hands on hips, “Now then…”

He made his way toward Ann, who must have been doing her best not to give ground. But this Kamoshida… he was like if the real one had been stripped of consequence. He radiated infinite power, and from a brief acquaintance, Akira knew exactly what this man would do with it.

Kamoshida’s hand was on Ann’s face again. Gone was the pretense of tenderness: now, Ann was an animal, to be manipulated as he saw fit. He hemmed and hawed as he turned her head this way and that - effortlessly despite her struggling against him. Finally he said, altogether too cheerily, “Ah, I see. It’s a close imitation, men, but no, this isn’t my Ann- _chan_.”

She clawed against him, growled, “Of _course_ I’m not your-”

“Did I say you could talk?” He smacked her across the face, and she hit the ground with a gasp and a thud. Akira moved to scramble to her aid, but was cut off by the guards. Kamoshida spared a glance back at him, gloated, “You intruders never learn. This is _my_ castle. I’ll rule it as I like.”

From where she’d landed, Ann rubbed at her cheek, already starting to go red. There was that fire in her eyes again - why did it seem so much more likely to burn her, “Kamoshida, you let us go now and I won’t-”

He swooped down, pinning her to the ground. Looming over her, his shout was manic, “You won’t _what_!?” Akira must’ve moved, because the guards pressed him back again, “Fucking bimbo, do you still not get it?? This is MY world! Whatever else is true out there, everything in here is _MINE_.”

They were here again. It was like Akira had never walked in on Kamoshida and Ann.

So damn it, he had to try again. “Get away from her!” He still couldn’t muscle his way past the guards, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

Because at least it could distract Kamoshida. He rose into a kneel, then all the way… and then he just started laughing, “Honestly… the two of you. It’d be funny if it weren’t so sad.” He shrugged, “Alright.”

Snapping his fingers, two of the guards holding Akira charged forward with him, slamming him back into a wall. Their swords crossed over his neck. There were still at least four more of them that Akira could see… and then Kamoshida himself.

Who stood before Akira, grinning from ear to ear as he oozed his orders, “Kill the girl. Take as long as you want: I want the hero to watch.”

Ann looked to him, eyes wide. She was running the same numbers as him: he was just dead. He wouldn’t blame her if she ran. He should’ve been shouting for her to run. If she sprinted…

And dodged around all of them.

And didn’t run into any more.

And somehow found her way out.

She saw it too. Somehow, this was already the end of the line. He willed her to try anyway. Ann barely breathed, tears starting to well up in her eyes, “Akira…”

That was when the hopelessness hit Akira. His shoulders sagged, just a little, but it was enough. Kamoshida chuckled, “Light dawns. Don’t worry, hero. You’re next.”

And then everything seemed to slow down. No, it seemed to stop. Akira saw the world as if it had almost faded to black - maybe a sword had slipped and mercifully cut his throat.

But there it was, fluttering just by his head: a butterfly floating by him, all shimmering blue light. It was impossibly beautiful, it didn’t fit anything here at all. A small voice, bright and clear like a diamond, chimed, “ _This is truly an unjust game. Your chances of winning are nearly none._ ”

He _knew_ that, damn it. He’d _known_ that from the start. Since Shido - no, since before Shido. The odds had been stacked against him for as long as mattered. Only an idiot would have even tried to fight against them.

“ _But if my voice is reaching you, there may yet be a possibility available to you_ …”

Before he could question that - before he could question this eleventh hour hysteria before death, the world seemed to flash back. It moved slower… and the pulsing in his head had returned. Intensified. It felt like the whole world should be throbbing.

And then a voice. Deep, refined, powerful.

**“What’s the matter? Are you simply going to watch…? Shall you forsake her to save yourself?”**

It demanded an answer, but Akira’s mouth was dry. Couldn’t he just die without false hope? Without torturing himself first?

But he went on, **“Death awaits her if you do nothing. Was your previous decision a mistake, then?”**

No. Never. If things had to end now, if he had to die humiliated, he would _not_ continue to pretend. He had been _right_. His voice found him. Through gritted teeth, he growled, “No. It’s the world that’s wrong!”

There was something on the wind that felt somehow intrigued, **“Then would you change it? If you could?”**

This time, the answer was on Akira’s lips the moment the thought formed in his head, “ _In a heartbeat._ ”

There wasn’t much time. The guards began to close in around Ann, swords drawn. Akira struggled in vain against his captors. Kamoshida leaned back against the wall, eager for his show to begin.

**“Very well. I have heeded your resolve.”**

Something snapped in Akira’s head. The world was gone, replaced only by white hot, searing pain. Every cell in his body was at once at war with every other cell. His very being was wrong. He screamed, and could not hear it - only _feel_ it.

**“I am thou, thou art I.”**

Wave after wave of agony rolled over him. He kept thinking it had to peak, it had to reach a point where it just finally mercifully _killed_ him but it never did. Yet the voice rang out, clear as day. A single spot of undeniable truth.

**“Thou who art willing to perform all sacrilegious acts for thine own justice.”**

Clarity.

**“Call upon my name, and release thy rage!”**

That was _him_. That was _his_ voice.

**“Show the strength of thy will to ascertain on thine own, though thou be chained to Hell itself.”**

Perfect.

Pain faded. Doubt died. All that remained were anger and resolve.

They flared together around him as blue and black flame. The guards were nothing: they turned to ashes, brought low before his power. Chains - not the ones from the cell. The ones that had held him back before now, kept him docile and weak. They whipped in the maelstrom he’d created. All eyes - Kamoshida, the remaining guards, Ann - they looked on him with wonder, and he began to suspect, terror.

As it should be.

Something hard on his face. A mask? That wouldn’t do at all. Akira had to be _seen_. He wouldn’t hide a moment longer. His hands found it: white metal, sharp, beaked edges. He pulled. It had sat longer on his face than he’d ever thought. The pain was incredible, but with perseverance, the mask gave way. Blood dripped down his face, warm and wet and _free_. 

“Arsène.”

The fires flashed again, swirling through the dank cell. They seemed to envelop him, but Akira felt no heat but the euphoria in his chest. They crescendoed, spiraling toward the ceiling, and coalesced into form.

Arsène floated expectantly by his side, a dark guardian angel in a suit of red and black. He seemed to stand on the air, strong and swaggering. Two feathered black wings grew from his back. His horns were long, and pulsed with the same fire as the gashes that served for his eyes.

Akira had the decency to match his other self: when the flames cleared, his uniform had burned away into a long black tailcoat, with a secondary coat underneath accented with gold and bright red gloves.

He felt Arsène’s voice more than he heard it, even with his other half standing right there over his shoulder, **“I am the rebel’s soul that resides within you. If you desire it, I shall consider granting you the power to break through this crisis.”**

Akira grinned, anticipation warm and tempting, “Do you have to ask?”

At another time, the creature’s laugh might have been unnerving. Now, it was wonderful, joyous, **“Oh, you’ll be entertaining indeed.”**

“H-Hey!” Kamoshida sputtered. Apparently, he’d fallen flat against the wall - had Akira knocked him down, or was he just in awe? Which would be better? He was sweating, trying to keep the waver from his voice, and failing, “This doesn’t change anything!” His servants stumbled to their feet, twitching and writhing, “Guards! Change of plans: he dies first!”

Akira braced himself for the worst as they sprang at him - and then they sank into the ground, erupting again as they really were.

Pumpkinheaded, they flitted in dark blue coats through the air with lanterns in hand. The impossibility of them didn’t quite register anymore: all Akira could see was how _weak_ they all were. How had he missed that before?

 **“Such eyesores…”** he or Arsène said. He suspected the latter: he still had to learn those feral tones, **“Detest the enemies before you! Turn that animosity into power, and unleash it!”**

Akira swooped in on them, deftly twirling on a heel to avoid a flailing lantern. Tendrils burst before him - for a moment, they startled him, but they too were a part of him, he was sure. They ravaged the enemy, and all it took were a few quick thrusts of his knife - whose appearance was a mystery as much as anything else - and they burst in smoke and black ooze.

Arsène chuckled, and it was all Akira could do not to join him, **“So be it: my power is yours. Kill them however you want. Run wild to your heart’s content!”**

Akira didn’t need to be told twice.

He moved through them like a wraith. The pumpkin creatures swung blindly, and he felt like once upon a time, their lucky shots might have stung - might’ve held the force necessary to put him down. Now, they were only a delay.

His knife hand moved with skill he didn’t know he had - he’d have suspected Arsène was guiding his movements, but the creature fought at his side, ripping through the phantoms with the same furious contempt Akira felt.

It was moments before the only enemy before him was Kamoshida.

He couldn’t help but revel in the man’s horror. A cautious step back. Another! “What… what are you?”

“Akira?” someone said, voice wavering. They said something else, but Akira had other things to worry about, and didn’t care to hear them. He took a step forward, disappointed when Kamoshida failed to flinch. They could both do better.

“Fine then! Bring it on, you fuck! I’ll-” there was a _thunk_ , and Kamoshida pitched forward onto the ground. It startled Akira out of his reverie - some of the rage in his chest flickered. Ann tossed a wooden plank away, scrambled by Kamoshida’s side, fumbling through his coat until a key glinted in her hand. There was maybe a half a second where she considered him before she jerked her head at the cell door. For just as long, the part of Akira that wanted _more_ considered staying instead of going after her.

Just as well that he followed: no sooner were they out of the cell that, in a flash of ash and smoke, Akira was in his school uniform again. And what had just happened began to wash over him. His eyes widened, and he looked back in the cell. The guards were still gone: Kamoshida was beginning to get to his feet, rushing like a bull for the door.

Not in time. It locked with a click, and Ann hopped back just in out of reach of a grasping hand from within. Kamoshida roared, “You little shits! When I get out of here, you’re dead!!!”

Ann sneered, “When you get out of there, we’ll be long gone, asshole!” She tossed the key into the waterway, and Kamoshida screamed in fury. He didn’t seem so weak now. What had Akira even been thinking?

She must’ve been thinking the same thing, giving Akira a brief once over. He hoped his confusion was as obvious as it was palpable, “Ann…”

“No time for that, let’s go.” He obeyed, and they ran. They had nothing so grand as a plan, only the need to put as much distance between themselves and Kamoshida’s ravings as they could.

Things felt more tense now. That should’ve been ridiculous: how exactly could they get _more_ tense from when the two of them had been wandering in a spooky palace with no means to defend themselves?

They had one now. It just so happened that it came in the form of a gaunt demon. And that it had shown that, given the chance to lash out, Akira would immediately grab it with both hands and love every second of it.

It wasn’t the violence that he regretted - Akira wasn’t sure he regretted any of it, even though a part of him knew that he _should_. They’d have done worse to him and Ann, and they deserved what they got. No, what bothered him was that he’d _enjoyed_ it. Having power, and having the ability to inflict it on others, had felt _good_.

He barely trusted _himself_ , thinking of it like that. Poor Ann.

At least they’d had each other’s backs before, been the closest thing here to each other’s known quantities.

There was another corner. Akira dreaded what might be around it, even though a part of him was somehow sure he could handle it. 

Then Ann stopped in her tracks, “What was that?”

At first, Akira thought she’d heard something. Then it clicked, and he felt foolish. Mostly just because he had no answer, “I… I don’t know.”

“If you could do that this whole time…?” she trailed off, shook her head, “That was…” Terrifying? Monstrous? Get away from me, freak? “Akira, that was amazing!”

Huh.

Akira wasn’t used to actually being praised for trying to help someone. He felt his face heat a little, “I didn’t exactly plan it, Ann.” Had she just not heard what the being that claimed to be a part of him had said?

“Do you think you could do it again?” she pressed.

He made an uncertain noise and shrugged, “I can try if it comes to it.” 

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

No, he was: he wasn’t sure he _should_ want to.

Akira wondered if any of that showed on his face. It seemed silly to imagine: one of the first things you learned during occupation was keeping your emotions hidden. And Akira had never been the _best_ at that, but this felt too complex a feeling to just accidentally show.

Ann was perceptive, though. She cocked her head to the side - you could practically see the question on her lips. He willed it to stay there, unspoken.

“Better not risk it then,” she said instead, eyes gliding over the dark corridor before them. She bit her lip with a worried brow. “How… how do you think we get out of here? There’s gotta be an exit, right?”

Akira, still a little shaken, nodded even as his mind whirled. “Although… If we’re in a dungeon it probably means we have to get to a higher floor.” Which he had no idea how to get to. He dared a step into the blackened hall, bracing himself lightly against the cool wall, feeling slightly nauseous.

“Are you all right?” Ann asked, a hint of worry in her voice. Gingerly she stepped next to him. He waved her off and straightened, trying to appear cool and collected. He walked a little further in, Ann following hesitantly in his footsteps. “Do you think this place follows the same layout as the school?” she asked nervously. “Like, this has to be Ashford, right?”

Akira shrugged. “I mean, we’re in a dungeon…. Does Ashford have those?”

“No… Well, not that I know of.”

Akira grimaced. They fell quiet, slowly making their way down the dark hall. Akira’s heart thundered in his ears, but there was also the unmistakable sound of rushing water. As the hallway petered out, he glimpsed a water wheel behind more steel bars to their left. To the right were empty cells.

“Just how big is this place?” Ann grumbled behind him. Akira gave the area a cursory look and was thankful to find no imminent threat. His shoulders sagged in relief.

“Well, running water would indicate some type of exit. I guess we can just try following this,” he gestured to the thin waterway.

Ann nodded, pigtails whipping back and forth with each turn of her head. Suddenly she let out a yelp, startling Akira to spin around and throw his arm out in front of her.

“W-w-wha—“

Akira blinked, stupefied, at the pathetic looking creature peering out at them hopelessly behind the bars of a cell. It was two feet tall, if that, and looked like a five year old’s drawing of a cat had come to life. There was a bright yellow bandana around its neck, and a utility belt that blended into its black fur (except for the bright gold buttons) around its waist. It wore a black skullcap mask over a head that was a near perfect oval, and as big as the rest of its body. How it avoided toppling was anyone’s guess. 

Oh, and it apparently could talk, “Wait! Don’t be afraid, milady. I know I’m imposing, but if you scream now, we’re both doomed!”

Ann didn’t _scream_ , but that surprised squeak came pretty close. She was also coming closer to coherence again, “What… what are…?” At a loss for how to finish that sentence, she stared wide-eyed at Akira, “Y-you’re seeing this too, right?”

“I dunno,” Akira adjusted his glasses: the creature was still there, “You’re seeing a cat, right?”

Jumping up against the bars of its cell (if its head were just smaller, it could just slip out on its own), the creature shouted, “No, she’s not because no, I’m not! Why don’t you come in here and call me that again, frizzy hair!” Akira held up his hands, and the not-cat scoffed, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

A childish part of Akira wanted to rise to that challenge. Would it be an abuse of this ‘power of rebellion’ to put a big-talking cat in its place? Probably.

Ann inched closer to the cell. This whole day had been weird enough for both of them that no one thing could trip them up for long, “Okay, but if you’re not a cat,” which was a generous assumption, “What exactly are you?”

It was like this thing really were a child’s toy, and someone had flipped a switch to set it from ‘aggressive’ to ‘simpering.’ It cooed, “Milady, what you’re seeing here isn’t my real form - I’m a human, just like you. I’m sorry that our first meeting put me in this intimidating form.”

Akira didn’t bite down the laugh before it was out. So he doubled down, “‘Intimidating?’” 

The cat glared his way. If looks could kill, at least Akira wouldn’t have had to worry about getting out of the dungeon anymore, “I’m _obviously_ talking about my overflowing charm, frizzy hair. Keep quiet and listen, maybe you can take notes.”

Oh, yeah, this thing was real charming, “Let’s just get going. I seriously don’t need this right now.” The exit wasn’t going to find itself: this distraction was surreal, but ultimately pointless.

“Hey wait!” Akira wasn’t going to, but Ann seemed rooted and transfixed by the cat, “Seriously, wait. I need your help.”

“Got a funny way of showing it,” Akira grumbled.

“Shut up already!” it cried, “Look, I just need you guys to get me out of here. The key’s _right there_!”

 _Right there_ was a hook driven into the stone just outside the cell. If this thing had longer arms, and was a little taller, it probably could’ve just reached it itself. Akira had half a mind to tell it as much. Ann, though, already had the key in hand, inserting it into the lock. She stopped, eyed the cat with suspicion, “You’re not gonna turn out to be some kind of trap, right?”

This look crossed the creature’s face, like it was swallowing something rude. Instead, carefully, it stepped back from the bars, and you could practically see the halo over its head, “If I were a trap, why would they lock me up in here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to put a trap in the way of your way out?”

“I dunno, that sounds like something a trap would say,” Akira added helpfully, “We never said we were on our way out.”

“Oh come on. The only reason you wouldn’t wanna escape this hellhole is if you were guards. And _look_ at you.” The cat gestured derisively at Akira, “You’re way too weedy to be one. And Lady… uh…” it looked at Ann questioningly.

“Ann.” 

“ _Lady Ann_. Truly, a meow-velous name,” it purred, “Lady Ann is too dainty and elegant to be one of the palace ruler’s brutes.” Ann snorted, and Akira couldn’t help but think of Kamoshida sprawled unceremoniously onto the cell floor at her hands. Dainty and elegant indeed.

And yet not the most questionable thing that it had said, “‘Palace ruler?’”

“Is parroting me all you can do, frizzy hair?” the creature hissed, “Yeah, the ruler of the palace. You know. Where we are right now? Duh.”

Ann lit up, “Wait, you know where we are?”

It crossed its arms, winked, “Oh, Lady Ann, I know _all kinds_ of things. The name’s Morgana, master thief and infiltration extraordinaire. You’ll be hearing all about me in due time, just you wait.”

Akira couldn't resist poking a hole in its sails, “Aren’t the best thieves the ones who don’t get famous? Because they don’t get caught?”

That injection of logic threw Morgana off its (maybe his?) rhythm, “I… I mean you’ll be hearing about my _exploits_ in due time!”

“ _Boys_!” Ann chided, maybe a little louder than was safe. To Akira’s amusement, Morgana stiffened at her shout. It let him ignore that he’d done the same, “Stay focused. Morgana, you know where we are?”

The cat nodded, “Yeah - you’re in the Meta-” 

“Do you know the way out?” Ann asked.

Morgana’s eyes narrowed with determination, “I do. But I can’t help you from in here, Lady Ann.”

Looking over her shoulder at Akira, Ann arched an eyebrow, “What do you think? Do we trust him?”

Honestly, a part of him was ready to try to find their way out on their own. But that was the same pettiness that made him want to fight a _cat_. Being the bigger man, looking at the bigger picture… he and Ann had just seen how Kamoshida treated his prisoners. 

He couldn’t exactly leave this wide-eyed, sad little creature to that fate. Akira shrugged, “Honestly, it seems too dopey and full of itself to be malicious.”

If Morgana wasn’t a cat, that furious yowl could’ve fooled anyone. But other than that, he held his tongue this time. And just in time: in the distance someone with a distorted voice called out, “I heard something from this way!”

And another responded, louder, as if they were getting closer, “It must be the intruders! Find them and kill them all!”

Akira, Ann, and Morgana all let out one uniform gasp. That’s right: they had a common enemy. Morgana leaned into the bars of his cell, “ _Please_ , Lady Ann.”

She considered for one moment longer, then nodded. The key turned. Morgana bounded out of the cell. The way he turned his head back and forth, he must’ve been cracking his neck. The sound was more rubbery than anything else, “Ahh, freedom. What a difference a few steps can make, huh?”

Indeed: one moment, they were in relative safety, hidden behind between the waterway and the wall. The next, one of the malformed guards rounded the corner, crying, “They’re here!”

As it melted into the ground, Morgana bounced in place, “Right to work, I see. Could use the exercise anyway!” He cocked his head, “Hey, frizzy hair, you any good in a fight?”

Despite himself, Akira hesitated. Visions of wicked claws tearing through monstrous flesh raced through his mind. Of respect long denied finally taken by force.

Was that _good_ in a fight?

The guard rose again, another of the flying jack-o-lanterns. Another followed in its path, twitching its way into a winged, leathery demon with a bright red spike curving from its crotch. Morgana huffed. Akira been quiet too long, “Figures as much. See ya soon, then.”

Light as a feather, the cat bounded onto Akira’s shoulder, from there flipping through the air into a superhero landing, “Come, Zorro!”

At that point, Morgana seemed to explode into flame - the same blue-white as Akira had, back in his cell. There was no way. He’d just been all talk, surely?

But sure enough, there stood another creature behind him - the cat’s counterpart to Arsène, surely. It was broad shouldered, so muscular that the rapier in its hand looked like a dagger. It was a black clad matador, with a tight patterned shirt, studded pantaloons, and two bright yellow eyes staring intensely from a tiny, flat head. He wore a diamond studded belt with a gaudy silver ‘Z’ buckle, and cut the same symbol into the air with three swift strikes.

It was a ridiculous, flamboyant beast. And the way Morgana crossed his arms and smirked triumphantly, it - Zorro - was everything he wanted to be, “Thanks for the hospitality, guys: let me return the favor!”

And he sprung into action, a blur of fur and fury. The only reason Akira could keep up with him was that the sheer size of Zorro at his back.

Something twitched at the back of his mind, and at once Akira felt dizzy. He steadied himself, a hand going to his head. It was… humiliating. To be talked down to by some monster cat, and then to have him turn around and save his life. He hated this feeling of being powerless, of having to stand by helplessly and be _rescued_.

**“Then don’t. Cut your own path to justice, and owe nothing to anyone.”**

His feet were moving before he could think. His uniform melted back into the flowing coat tails and hard mask from the cell, **“The world lied to you. There is nothing wrong with striking down the wicked - no shame in reveling in their suffering.”**

As Morgana dove toward the pumpkinhead, a second demonic creature swooped from above, hoping to gore Morgana from behind. Instead, Akira lashed out with his dagger, spinning it with that expertise that couldn’t have simply been _his_ , and the creature fell.

**“So make them suffer. They will not simply _give_ you your freedom. Take it.”**

Morgana gasped in surprise, glancing in Akira’s direction, “Huh. Guess you are good for something after all, frizzy hair.”

“It’s Akira,” he smirked back, “You’re not so bad either, cat.”

“I am _not_ a-” he was quiet, as their assailants were joined by yet more guards. He leaped back, hoisting a sword almost as big as himself over his shoulder (where’d he been hiding _that_?), “Never mind. Just try not to slow me down!”

Charging together, Akira said, “Likewise.”

They made a good team, he had to admit. Morgana had clearly had experience fighting these creatures: for the most part, he was able to nimbly bound around them, using tiny faults in the terrain, or his opponents themselves, as stepping stones. Zorro also moved with grace, despite his size. His and Morgana’s swords struck sharp and fast, like wind.

Akira was still learning: mostly, he could only tear through enemies, not dodge around them. That suited the rage in him just fine, his and Arsène’s anger burned through enemies like wildfire. But he had to admit he was also jealous of Morgana’s finesse.

Between the two of them, soon the guards were dispatched. Akira and Morgana looked to each other, nodded in a newfound respect. Just above their heads, Arsène’s clawed hand clasped Zorro’s meaty gloved one, before both dissipated.

Necessarily, Ann had hung back from that fight, keeping just inside Morgana’s former cell. There was little evidence of the carnage now, but still her jaw was hanging open again from surprise. Morgana puffed out his chest, saying airily, “Yeah, I know, Lady Ann: I’m impressive. I didn’t expect to meet another persona user, though.”

“Persona?” Akira asked, “That’s what this power is?”

“I mean, yeah,” Morgana said with all the airs of an expert in his field, “At least, that’s what I call them. It’s the power of our will, our other halves. So they’re our personas, get it?”

“I’ve gotta get one of those…” Ann murmured. She looked Akira up and down, added, “Maybe one with slightly less ridiculous fashion sense.”

Akira looked down at himself. His school uniform hadn’t come back this time: good, this suited him better. He grinned, “Jealous isn’t a good look on you, Ann.”

Maybe that was a little too sharp, but he owned it. Ann didn’t laugh, but didn’t object either, except maybe for raising her eyebrows.

“Akira,” Morgana called out from further down the hall, his voice echoing off the walls, “I’ll lead the way, you bring up the rear. Make sure nothing sneaks up on us, rookie!”

He and Ann exchanged an amused look. Taking an exaggeratedly deep bow, Akira asked, “Shall we, _Lady_ Ann?”

She stiffened with some snooty Britannian noblewoman’s poise, flicking back a pigtail, “We shall, _Sir_ Akira!” 

‘Sir Akira.’ 

It didin’t quite fit - something in the sound was off. But felt like a step in the right direction.

* * *

As much as a part of Akira hurt to admit it, Morgana really did seem to know what he was doing. At first, the way he tore through the dungeon, he kept leaving Ann and Akira behind. He adjusted his pace, though, not even making a big deal out of it. He did gently say to Ann, “Lady Ann, if we need to go slower, just let us know. But your footsteps make a lot of noise.”

The fact that he didn’t say the same, but more caustic, to Akira meant that his own footfalls were quiet enough for the cat’s taste. Which Akira couldn’t help but take pride in.

Morgana also seemed to know his way around the dungeon. He ducked into a dusty cell, calling, “We can sneak past the bars of the next one through here: it’ll get us past that wall!” It was all just one motion, like this was a game he’d played before. Honestly, maybe he had: Akira wondered how long he’d been down here.

The tunnel he led them through, though, was definitively not human sized. Akira and Ann slowed to a crawl following their new companion, struggling just to squeeze through. Altogether unpleasant. At least Akira’s new coat seemed to repel dust, that was a nice touch. 

To his eyes, all the winding halls of the dungeon could’ve been the same. When they emerged from the tunnel, there was the same waterway and the same rows and rows of empty cells.

Empty wasn’t quite accurate. They all had an array of torture equipment, like Ann and Akira’s had. And most of them also all seemed to have something else that stood out. A distinctly modern stepladder. A bucket on wheels with a mop in it. A volleyball in a glass cage.

Ann seemed to be having the same thoughts, “A lot of cleaning equipment in these cells… why’s this place so filthy then?”

Morgana jumped right in with the answer, “Everything’s more representative in the Metaverse, Lady Ann. It’s not that they’re literally mops and brooms and stuff.”

And then he just stopped, as if that explained anything. Akira, looking in on where a bottle of sanitizer hung suspended from chains on the ceiling, commented, “You keep saying ‘Metaverse’ like it’s supposed to mean something.”

Whirling on him, Morgana gasped, “Wait, do you guys seriously not know? Like you don’t even know where you _are_?”

“Well I _thought_ we were at Ashford Academy!” Ann said, “But then everything got all dungeony and then Kamoshida locked us up and…”

Morgana held up a paw, shaking his head, “Kamoshida, huh? Must be this palace’s ruler.”

“Thanks, that’s helpful,” Akira sniped.

“You guys are so far behind, its got me wondering how you even got _in_ ,” Morgana sighed. Ann let out a bitter laugh at that: it wasn’t like they’d wanted to ‘get in.’ The cat, undeterred, gestured to where a series of cages formed miniature islands in the waterway, “Keep steady, we’re gonna jump these.” With a quick hop, he began to do so, “So you guys are from the real world - obviously, we all are. Well, this is like a parallel world to that.” He hopped again, turning and holding out his paws to encompass the whole dismal ensemble, “The Metaverse.”

He still was saying that like it was supposed to mean something. Akira shrugged to show how much it didn’t, “So, like… magic? We’re in a magical world?”

Morgana huffed, “Well, _yeah_ , you could call it that if you were an _idiot_.” Akira put a hand to his chest as if clutching at a wound, “So you know how everyone has a different perspective on the world? Like, what one person sees as one thing, another person might see differently?”

Ann crossed her arms, “Like, how the rest of the world thinks V11 day is weird and culty, but Britannia thinks it’s a party?”

That was heavy. And appropriately, it hit the cat like a ton of bricks. Under his mask, he furrowed his brow and tried to process what that meant, “Uh… what? Britannia…?”

For now, Akira could sweep under the rug that this thing was claiming to be human, but also _somehow_ didn’t know about Britannia. Maybe he was just particularly, astoundingly ill-informed politically. 

Akira wished _he_ could just be in a position to forget about Britannia. If anything, he was jealous.

But Morgana needed another prompt, so he provided, “Or how I might see, like, a coffee shop as a second home, but someone else might think of it as a dump?”

Morgana swayed back and forth, “ _Kinda_? Look, it’s all about cognition and perception. This is a place that spawned from the palace ruler’s - I guess this Kamoshida guy’s mind. He sees somewhere in the real world as something else, and so here in the Metaverse, it appears like that.”

Ann opened her mouth, shook her head. Shrugging, she took a breath, jumped after the cat. There was a brief moment where she swayed and Akira thought she was going to slip into the rushing water, but she steadied herself, “So like, Kamoshida sees the school as a dungeon?”

Looking around, Morgana murmured, “So it’s a school in the real world.” Aloud, and more confidently, he said, “There’s more to the palace than just the dungeon. You guys must’ve come in from somewhere more in the middle. The upper floors are a lot more ritzy.”

He took another jump, and Ann followed shortly after him. Akira swiftly moved to the cage where she’d been standing, holding out his arms to balance himself, “Alright, so he sees Ashford as… as some kind of fancy mansion, and so here it is?” Something occurred to him, and in equal parts terror and glee he asked, “Wait, did we lock him somewhere in the real world?”

Morgana laughed, “No, frizzy hair, that was just his shadow. Everybody has a reflection of themselves in the Metaverse, their shadows. And when they come together with the real world version of them, that’s their persona.” He took a brief pause to hop onto the other bank, “Gotta say, your other half is a real devil.”

There wasn’t much of Akira that was still uncomfortable with that. He hid what there was with a wink, “You know it.”

Ann made another heart-stopping jump, steadying herself with a grunt. Righted, she asked, “So the real Kamoshida shouldn’t know anything about what happened to the… uh… ‘Shadow Kamoshida,’ right?”

Morgana thought on that, shrugged, “Probably not. Maybe he’ll have a vague feeling like he’s supposed to be mad at you for something, but I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Akira didn’t try to hold back his laugh, “Me neither. He’s already decided he hates me.”

Ann’s look back was equal parts sardonic and sympathetic, “And I doubt he cares what I do _at all_.” Barring one exception they both kept unspoken.

Once they were all across, Morgana took off again, Akira and Ann running to keep up. As they went, Ann asked, “So wait, how did _you_ get in here, Morgana?”

At an intersection in the path, he stopped, looking this way and that and muttering, “Wait, how _did_ I get in here?” But once he’d chosen his path, he sped down it with the same certainty he’d had before, “That’s an excellent question, Lady Ann! You’ve really got a knack for this sort of thing.”

“Okay, so how did you…?”

“Hey, Akira, help me with these,” The cat said, pointing to a large wooden door at the top of what seemed like a set of dirt stairs. Pushing a shoulder against them, they were indeed heavy, but they gave, “This isn’t my first palace. I have a knack for getting into all kinds of them.”

“But how did you get into _this_ one?” Ann pressed, joining on the doorway.

“Honestly, this is one of the things I respect most about you,” Morgana grunted, straining his nubby little arms against the door, “How much you want to get to the bottom of things…”

“Dude, it’s _okay_ if you don’t know,” Akira muttered, “God. So like if everything here is Kamoshida’s imagination, what does that say about this door?”

A little abashed, Morgana grumbled, “Maybe that whatever he keeps down here, he keeps under heavy guard?” As in confirmation, the door finally gave, and the three of them toppled in a heap onto what, thankfully, was a red carpeted floor.

It was still a hard landing: stone and earth had given way to marble and gold. Morgana hadn’t been kidding when he said the upper floors were ritzy. Even in this room, supposedly leading into the dungeon, the decor seemed to sparkle. Two marble statues - unmistakably Kamoshida in his painful pink robe - stood flexing side by side in the doorway.

Ann pulled herself to her feet, looking almost as shocked by the new decadence as she’d been by the squalor. She grimaced at the statues, picking what looked like a rose petal out of her hair, “Really?”

They seemed to be scattered across the all the carpets. Morgana shook some off as well, crossing his arms to inspect the Kamoshidas, “So that’s the palace ruler… yeah, he looks like bad news.”

“Yeah, you don’t know the half of it,” Akira muttered. Arsène flickered behind him, “We got time to wreck these?”

“Cool it, frizz,” Morgana hissed, “We don’t know what that’ll do to the palace, and there’s no way we could get it done before guards turned up. Follow me and we’ll figure out our next plan of attack.”

They had to stop again to take in the vast hall - it must’ve been the main entryway. On one side, huge stone doors - maybe as much as twenty feet tall. The ceiling was high and sloped, and sported several glittering chandeliers from the rafters. _Everything_ had that unnatural, gaudy shine to it. It made the real Ashford look almost reserved and demure - and for all of that shine, there was still somehow this sense of everything lurking in shadows. A balcony hung around the inner walls, tapering into a stairwell down the middle, that drew the eye to the massive painting on the wall. 

It was unmistakably Kamoshida. He stood, naked except for his crown, his cape, and a shield to protect his modesty. He raised a sword on high, his silent battlecry joyous and triumphant. It seemed to sparkle unnaturally, which made Akira wonder if that was another effect of the Metaverse. 

If you looked at him long enough - which they did, the painting was a surreal train wreck - you just barely could notice the bags under his eyes.

Ann made a disgusted noise, “I knew he had an ego, but…”

Morgana put a paw to what passed for his chin, musing, “It’s not even worth stealing. It’d be too unwieldy to get through the doors, and even then who would buy it?” He started down the opposite hall from where they’d come in.

Akira took just a moment longer take in Kamoshida in all his delusional glory. If he understood Morgana correctly, this was how he saw himself: a king in his castle, a victorious champion. And he had the nerve to ridicule Akira as playing hero.

He wondered if Ann, who’d also lagged behind, had the same thought. It wasn’t impossible, but it also couldn’t be even near the top of her list of things to worry about in this room. Just a little, she shrank into herself. It was barely necessary: she’d already be a speck of dust in the sight of the painted Kamoshida.

Actually, now that Akira looked, she wasn’t actually looking at the painting, but something up on the balcony. He followed her gaze, and there, leaning over the gilded railing, one hand supporting her chin, was a girl.

At first, Akira didn’t recognize her: she was dressed all in black, with a hoodlike white headdress he vaguely recognized as a nun’s habit. He didn’t think they were supposed to let their hair spill out like that, but there it was: long and blonde and pigtailed. Somehow, she wore the shapeless, billowing outfit tight against hourglass curves.

Her eyes were half-lidded and shone a bright gold (almost the same sheen of Kamoshida’s). But otherwise, the nun was a perfect match for Ann.

She locked eyes with Akira, smirking. There was something appraising on her face: Akira was an interesting new toy. The shadowy Ann straightened slowly, biting her lip. Winked impishly. Then she flounced away, out of sight.

Beside him, the real Ann whispered, “The fuck…” low enough that it could only be for herself.

Akira still felt the need to answer, “That’s… obviously just his fantasy of you. Or cognition, or whatever.” He gave her an embarrassed smile, “I know that it’s not…”

“Why am I a _nun_?” Ann asked quietly, looking where the shadow had stood. The question was more of ‘why was she a _sexy_ nun?’ but that felt like poor form to ask.

Honestly, talking about it at all felt like a bad idea. Something about the shadow Ann felt personal. Like something that Akira hadn’t been supposed to see. So he forced on a smile and hoped it was reassuring, “It doesn’t matter: we’re getting out.”

Ann paused, considering that. Her gaze didn’t leave that balcony. But she said, “Yeah,” and followed after Akira.

Thankfully, the room at the end of that hallway was empty and more composed - Akira couldn’t have taken much more decadence. Here, there was a dusty, untouched bookcase, a table with multiple chairs, and several candles lining the walls. Morgana hopped onto the desk, announced, “And there we are: your way out.”

Ann blinked, “Uh… it looks more like a dead end.” 

Deflating only a little, Morgana pointed up at the bookcase - no, at the rusted grate hidden just above it. Akira grinned - somehow, this was more exciting than being shown the door, “Wait, we’re going out the air ducts? Nice.”

“Well not now, obviously,” Morgana said.

“What’s obvious about that?” Ann inspected the grate, looking like she was planning how she’d even get up there, “I’d actually like to get out of here as soon as possible.”

She put a foot on the bookcase’s lowest shelf, testing to see if it’d hold her weight. It seemed to. The cat, though, had this look of utter betrayal. He was flabbergasted into inarticulation “Lady Ann! Our… our deal!?” 

Ann looked at him like she’d only just noticed he was a talking cat, “What deal?”

That apparently cut deep enough that Morgana recoiled in horror, “B-back at the cell! Our promise to help each other out? I help you two find the exit, and you help me find out what happened to my real form!”

“When did we agree to that?” Ann asked - not even maliciously, just genuinely confused, “I thought our agreement was just to get you out of the cell.”

“I… I feel like a longer-term partnership was implied!” He must have known how weak that argument sounded. He gestured desperately at Akira, adding, “And I’ve been teaching you more about the Metaverse!”

“Mostly unprompted,” Akira noted with a shrug, “Though obviously thanks for your help with that.”

Ann smiled. Akira didn’t know if the cat deserved one that genuine, “Seriously. We really couldn’t have made it out without you.” Did she even know she was twisting the knife? It kind of didn’t sound like it, “But let’s raincheck on raiding the castle. This is just kinda like, I dunno, regrouping?”

“Regrouping with _my body_ on the line!” Morgana shrieked.

“I’m sure it’s not going anywhere,” Akira said with a shrug, “Assuming there’s even something to _find_.”

“How dare you, of course there’s something to find,” Morgana hissed. He hopped off of the table, wobbling over to Ann. He was full on playing the ‘scared lost animal’ card, eyes wide and shining. This cat was a good actor, “Lady Ann, you’re not really going to _leave me_ like this, are you? I thought we had such a-”

“No!” she said, scooting down to almost his level. Even squatting, she was taller than Morgana. Gently, she reached out to scratch at his mask, just behind where the ears stuck out. Judging by the purring, it did the trick, “Don’t get me wrong, Morgana, we’ll help you.” 

Akira wasn’t sure who ‘we’ were that Ann felt like she could speak for them. They sounded charitable.

Morgana brightened at once, “Really! Oh, thank you Lady Ann, let’s-”

“Just not right now!” Ann said, just as brightly. Akira almost laughed. She jerked a thumb at the bookcase, “Akira, give me a boost.” He did, holding out his hands for her to step on. She was heavier than she looked.

For his part, Morgana was just frozen with shock. As Ann disappeared up, and the vent clattered haphazardly behind her, Akira gave him a ‘what can you do?’ shrug. It wasn’t quite gloating. Or not too much.

Something about the Metaverse must’ve given him an improved jump - or maybe just more confidence in his physical ability. Because he just _soared_ from the floor to the top shelf, flipping up effortlessly onto the ledge. He gave Morgana a debonair wave, “Let’s do this again some time.”

Akira even meant that. But it didn’t stop Morgana from screaming indignantly after him as he followed Ann into the vent.

It shouldn’t have felt this cool to be escaping a castle unseen via the air vent, but now that Akira thought of it in those terms, he wondered why not. The grime just fit with this palace’s apparent ruler: no matter how ostentatious the surface, what kept it all running was filth.

They emerged into a night obscured by red tinged clouds. Given that it had been day and clear skies when they left, Akira figured that was another ‘representative’ thing. Or maybe the Metaverse just looked like that?

Their escape had left them somewhat precariously on a stone ledge overlooking what must have been the courtyard. Ann looked rather picturesque with the breeze blowing her hair, looking wide eyed out on the outside world.

The skyline was the same, as far as he could tell, as the Settlement outside Ashford. Kamoshida’s imaginings seemed limited to the Academy itself.

No, that wasn’t quite right: there was the moat that surrounded the castle. It must’ve been kept at a boil: Akira could feel the heat from it even from on high. That wasn’t what made his heart hammer, though: that would be the army that stood motionless around that moat.

They were hard to look at, dressed all in white armor that glittered despite the absent sun. Where the guards in the palace had worn masks, these soldiers had more practical helmets - it occurred to Akira that they looked vaguely like the ‘heads’ of Sutherland knightmare frames.

None of them moved: they all stood perfectly still, waiting for something. None even tended to the trebuchets or catapults that were spread throughout their number, aimed toward the castle walls. Their spears were held skyward, at attention. Those that didn’t carry spears instead bore banners, on which were displayed martial fleurs-de-lis or the imperial chimera.

It was an archaic equivalent - not a knightmare or a gun in sight. But this was unmistakably an army of Britannia.

Row after row of them faced the castle, stretching as far as Akira could see, no matter which direction he looked. Yet none attempted to cross the lowered drawbridge.

Ann gulped, and Akira took a seat on the ledge. She managed, “Wow…”

He nodded bitterly, “Even in a magical world, can’t escape Britannia.” 

But maybe now he could fight them. Until today, he hadn’t had anything he could call power. Now?

Arsène stirred within him. 

Maybe.

He waved off the army as best as he could, “In any event, we’re not going that way.”

Ann held out her arms a little for balance, sitting by his side carefully as she could, “We got in. We must be able to get back out.”

As if in response to that, Akira’s phone buzzed. It felt so weird for such a mundane thing to be happening, given the situation. Even more absurdly, he reached for it.

An app was sending him an error message. 

More specifically, the creepy eye he’d deleted last night was.

‘ _Error: Cannot exit Metaverse from inside palace. Please increase distance from palace._ ’

“Why don’t we try heading down?”

It was a tricky descent, but they made it without much issue. Ann wasn’t so much out of shape as just not prepared to be scaling castles. Akira hadn’t thought he was ready for that himself, but something in him was ready to do it more or less automatically. Metaverse shenanigans. Or a lost calling as a cat burglar.

Once in the courtyard, his phone buzzed again. When he checked it, Ann looked at him like he’d finally cracked, “Akira, is now really the time?”

“Actually, yeah,” he said, showing her. This time, the app displayed only a question.

‘ _Return to the real world?_ ’

* * *

The Metaverse had been relatively quiet, once you got outside the castle. So when the Tokyo Settlement rose back up around them, it was almost jarring to hear the sounds of the city. But how welcome it was to see the gates to Ashford Academy again.

Ann practically deflated into her sigh of relief, nearly toppling down onto the sidewalk. A part of Akira was right there with her - another already missed the rush he’d felt. Arsène didn’t appear to have come back with them. He hadn’t expected him to, but somehow it was still a disappointment.

Looking incredulously at Akira, Ann asked suddenly, “Wait, could you do that the _whole time_!?”

He tried to put all of his confusion into one massive shrug, “I mean, not the _whole_ time…” fiddling briefly with his phone, he handed it off to show her the app. It had text attached to it now: apparently it was ‘the Metanav.’ 

It actually loaded when you clicked on it now. Though most of what it displayed was gibberish. Akira looked over Ann’s shoulder as she scrolled, explaining, “This thing just appeared on my phone last night. I tried deleting it, but…”

“Creepy…” she murmured.

“ _Really_ creepy,” he agreed.

Ann made a curious hemming noise, and proceeded to start typing - which struck Akira as poor etiquette, but he’d apparently just gotten them trapped in another world, so who was he to judge?

One result was already displayed when she tapped on the search bar: Suguru Kamoshida, under which was displayed the phrase ‘Ashford Academy = Castle.’ Ann scrunched her brow, considering, “Do you think we end up back in there if I click on it?”

“Probably better not to chance it,” Akira said. 

He held out his hand for his phone, at which point an authoritative voice said, “Miss, is this young man bothering you?”

Ashford guards were, all things considered, better equipped than their equivalents in the Metaverse. They had the same body armor of the Britannian military - Akira was pretty sure that they were plucked from the reserves. He knew that guards for schools in the ghetto were actually soldiers, but that might’ve been more of an occupation thing.

It was so weird coming back to this. There was this part of him that wanted to mouth off, to pick a fight. But the machine rifles the guards carried suggested he reconsider. At least they weren’t pointed _at_ him. He took a step back from Ann, making sure his hands were visible so that that didn’t change.

The larger of the two got up in his face, of course, growling, “You want to tell me what you’re doing in an Ashford uniform, Eleven?” Ah, there it was again.

It was Ann’s turn to save him, apparently, “Listen, he’s a student.”

“His Highness’s latest pet project,” muttered the first guard who’d called out. He was gentle with Ann, asking, “Everything’s fine here, miss? It looked like he was crowding you there.”

“He’s my _friend_ ,” Ann spat. Akira couldn’t imagine ever being that openly rude to occupation forces. Not more than once, anyway, “Don’t you have a school to guard?”

“Just doing our jobs, miss. Can’t be too careful with the Elevens.” _Like he wasn’t even there._

Gruff guard just got gruffer, “What brings you outside the Academy, _student_?” Amazing the words that could turn into insults if you tried hard enough. Akira wanted to ask if this guy knew how to talk, outside of leading, threatening questions.

That was probably a bad idea, but so was telling the truth. 

‘ _Well officer, we just got back from a magical palace where cats talk and I have power._ ’ And so ended the parole of Akira Kurusu.

Instead, he said, “Sir, Ms. Takamäki and I are working on a project about the Conquest of Area 11 together. We were going to go to the museum to do research.”

“That true, miss?”

“Yes, that’s true,” Ann said quickly.

The first guard looked him up and down, said, “Head back to the Academy. No point heading to the museum now: by the time you get there you’ll have to head back for curfew. Use a day off if you’re gonna go.”

“I will, thank you sir.” Akira said automatically.

The more he looked at them, the more Britannian soldiers reminded him of the guards in the palace. The same self importance. The same derision for the weak. The masks.

“You’re free to go.”

_Not yet I’m not._

Maybe Arsène had come back with him after all.

Ann was absolutely fuming as they headed through the gate. Akira hoped she wouldn’t blow up until after they were out of earshot, and she must’ve somehow known. Absolutely feral, she growled, “Just one thing after another today.”

She turned it into such a condemnation, it was actually a little funny. Akira smiled weakly, “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize for Britannians being…” she checked herself. This was the real world. People would hear and remember what they said here. Looking at Akira, she said, “I’m surprised _you_ took that so well.”

Honestly, he’d _felt_ like he was going to explode on them. Like seven years of practice were going to go up in smoke for no reason, “I mean… I should be used to it, right?”

“Yeah, but after how you were _there_ …”

He tensed. So they were going to touch base on this after all. Rubbing his neck a little, he said, “I’m sorry about that, too. It must’ve been…” there really wasn’t a good way to say this. He looked at the sky instead of at Ann, worried what he’d see, “It must’ve been hard to be stuck in that situation, powerless, with…”

Words failed him again. Ann pressed this time, “With?”

“With someone who was enjoying hurting people.”

There _had_ to be a better way to put it than that. But probably not a more honest way.

Ann laced her fingers together. It was her turn to look away, “I… I get it, you know? It’s like with the guy who got you arrested. You saw there was something wrong, and you made it right. And if that felt good… I don't know, maybe it was?”

“It definitely was,” Akira said flatly, “Neither of us would be standing here right now if I hadn’t done what I did. I just don’t want you to think…” 

That wasn’t quite right. He tried again, “I want you to feel safe around me. Safe _from_ me.”

“Akira, I’m half Japanese.”

At first, Akira thought that he’d heard her wrong. Because that didn’t follow what he’d said. His confusion must’ve shown, judging by her sad smile, “My family traveled a lot for work anyway - but we were living here in 2010. We barely managed to get out just before Britannia invaded. There wasn’t any coming back after that, so we just doubled down on Mom’s EU citizenship. But I always wonder what my life would’ve been like if we’d missed that flight, or if I looked more like Dad.”

She didn’t seem like she was going to say any more. Akira wasn’t sure why she’d said anything to begin with: he’d kinda known. So he started to speak, but then she finished, “And I’m telling you all this because _I_ _trust you_ , Akira.”

But that was absurd. How could she trust Akira, she barely knew him. Two days and dubious magical happenings did not a friendship make. And people didn’t just _trust_ him - no one! His word always had to be weighed against someone else’s, and endless rules and regulations had to be put in place to keep him in line. He was still sore, not just because of their time in the Metaverse, but also from his meeting with his _parole officer_.

And yet…

Ann smiled brightly, gestured with her head, “C’mon, we still need to get you a key.”

“Right…” it was strange, simultaneously feeling like he was floating and being utterly exhausted, “… yeah. I need to sleep for a year. Thank you.”

“Just a day,” she corrected. Which, like, obviously. But there was this odd determination in her eyes now, “Because we’re going back, right?”

Back into the palace? Back into danger? Back into a world where he could finally, finally _fight back_?

“Of course we are,” Akira smirked, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. For just a moment, they felt like a mask. 

How he longed to rip it off again.


	5. Endurance

**Outside of Time - Akira**

Even before being pulled into the Metaverse, Akira had had an incredibly long day. Obviously there was the exhaustion of training with Captain Riegel. By the end of his rehabilitation, Akira was either going to be a perfect physical specimen or dead. Even past that, though, it turned out that Ashford was just so tiring to deal with. It felt like someone was always sneaking a glance over his shoulder, making sure he wasn’t up to anything. It was basically all the same as yesterday, except with the fun new addition of a life or death magical interlude with Ann at the end.

All of that considered, maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised to once again wake up in prison. But he was.

Chains clattered gently together - it was a slightly musical sound, like wind chimes. The walls of this cell were padded with dark blue fabric. It could almost be mistaken for a luxury jail cell - Akira was getting to be a connoisseur. But it was cramped, and restrictive in other ways too. Rough iron chains dug into his wrists, and another around his ankle was linked to a heavy ball. If there were anywhere he could go, he couldn’t do it fast.

And the wardens were apparently never far off. A baton smashed repeatedly into the bars of his cell as a shrill voice shouted, “On your feet, inmate!”

Akira groaned, rubbing at his face. Obeying was the fastest way to get her to stop. In the dream, his body felt lighter at least, so staggering to his feet took little effort. He clutched the rough iron bars of his cell. Two children in matching blue prison guard uniforms, each with only one glowing yellow eye, stood outside the cell. Akira had met them before, the last time he’d had this dream. One, missing her left eye and with a long white braid, stood quietly, clutching a clipboard to herself as she stared intently at Akira. Justine. The other, missing her right eye and with two buns in her hair, breathed heavily in satisfied exertion, brandishing a baton. Caroline.

She jumped in with the bad cop routine, “About time, inmate! You’ve kept us all waiting!”

Justine chimed in just behind - not really ‘good cop,’ but at least not ‘abrasive and loud cop,’ “Our master has called you for a word of advice concerning your rehabilitation.” 

Akira tensed. ‘Their master,’ Igor, was downright unsettling. He sat further back from the cell in the center of an ornate blue rug with a golden olive branch pattern weaved into it. His old wooden desk was tidy and organized. A small stack of papers, an oil lamp, microphone, and feather pen were the only things covering it. It was the desk of a quietly competent professional. Someone with whom you would be in good hands.

Igor himself, though, looked like he stole bodies from graveyards. Everything about him was just a little bit _off_ , from the spindly legs and arms, too long and thin for his body, to his beak of a nose that seemed to extend for a foot. His eyes bulged wildly, visibly bloodshot even from a distance.

Even his smile was wrong. It spread from ear to pointed ear - in his head, Akira knew that it was supposed to look affable, but Igor’s mouth was just too wide. He spread his hands in greeting. His voice had so much more bass than you’d expect from something so small and frail looking, “Trickster. You have returned.”

To be heard as much as for any other reason, Akira played along, thumbing at the bars of his cell, “So I have.”

Igor made an appraising noise, looking from his papers to Akira and back again. He smiled - Akira was pretty sure he was going for ‘approving’ and not ‘menacing,’ “And with new and extraordinary power, no less. Excellent, well done.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together, “Then we may at last begin your rehabilitation.”

“You’re not gonna make me work out too, right? Because I get enough-”

Caroline cut him off, smacking her baton right by his fingers. He jerked back as electricity danced on the bars where she’d struck, “You watch your tone, inmate!”

“Stand down, Caroline,” Igor chuckled. She obeyed, though her glare dared Akira to try mouthing off again, “As to your question, Trickster, I am afraid there is no straight answer.” Which seemed somehow typical. Igor held out one empty palm, “On the one hand, you need not expect training designed simply to exhaust and abuse as you experience in your waking world.” He held out the other, tone taking on the slightest growl “But on the other, it would be unwise to hope that your rehabilitation will be easy: it will be a true test of fortitude, both of your body and your will. Make no mistake: ruin will soon descend upon the world, and you must be diligent, or else you will succumb to it.” 

Something ran down Akira’s spine. He told himself that this wasn’t real, and so nothing to be afraid of. He had trouble believing himself. 

Igor drew breath, tapped his fingers together, as if considering whether to go on. He did, “Indeed, you must be prepared for anything. I suspect that _other_ factors may soon be in play…” With another manic grin, Igor folded his hands again, “Rest assured that with your own devotion and my guidance, you will overcome any obstacles to becoming a splendid thief indeed.”

Tentatively, Akira gripped the bars again. This felt less and less like a strange dream. It was surreal and weird, yes, but also so straightforward. And if the Metaverse could be real, why not this?

The right words - the ones that would both express how confusing this all was and prevent the miniature wardens from lashing out again - wouldn’t come to him. So he settled for the always safe, always dissatisfying, “What do I have to do?”

“Why, begin to hone the power of Persona that you have awakened to, of course,” Igor flipped through the papers on his desk, arriving with a satisfied noise on whichever was relevant, “‘Arsène.’ A formidable manifestation indeed - I see that I ought to have high expectations for you, Trickster.”

Akira dared ask, “Do you?”

Another chuckle, “Impossibly.” Now _that_ was a challenge, and one that Akira found he couldn’t walk away from. Igor set aside his papers, “It would seem to me, then, that you have all you need to begin your rehabilitation in earnest.” Remembering something, he snapped his fingers, “Tell me, have you come to appreciate the Metaverse Navigator?”

Akira’s brow furrowed. This tied in almost too nicely with the events earlier today. Did that make it more or less likely to be a dream? “The Metanav? That was you?”

“Indeed,” Igor said, “I bestowed it upon you so that you might move between your reality and the Metaverse, thus facilitating your rehabilitation.”

“Well… thanks. It was nice to get home…” Akira said, “Though this feels like something you could’ve told me the last time we met.”

Caroline smacked the bars again - thankfully, there were no sparks this time. She must’ve been going for his fingers, but didn’t have the height for it. So she settled for screeching, “You don’t need to know _jack_ until our master feels like letting you know it, inmate!” She folded her arms, “You should be grateful he gave you such a useful tool at all!”

Justine chimed in, “You may show your gratitude by using it to work harder for rehabilitation.”

“Girls.” Igor said softly. It somehow seemed different - was Akira just imagining the danger in his voice?

It was enough to get the wardens’ attention. Both flushed, turning and bowing. Caroline murmured, “Sorry, master.”

“We will do our best not to speak out of turn,” Justine added, “We ought to set a better example for our inmate.”

Igor waved off their apologies, and both resumed silence. Maybe a more sullen one than before. He focused on Akira, considering, “There is little I will be able to do to directly guide your rehabilitation in the waking world… it is settled: I shall watch for individuals you may make use of, and grant the navigator to them as well.”

Akira wasn’t sure what to say to that either. He didn’t end up having to say anything: distantly, he heard the buzzing of an alarm. Igor smiled - there was something that was starting to be almost genuinely friendly about it, despite the menace he exuded, “It appears our time is up tonight. Return to your rest: your work begins tomorrow.”

* * *

**August 6, 2017 A.T.B. - Ryuji**

Dawn broke through half lidded blinds. Ryuji stifled a yawn: it was rare for him to be up so early. School wasn’t a long way from the apartment. Sometimes it seemed like anywhere he could go wasn’t far from the apartment. But today was important: better to start it off right.

His new uniform was easily the ritziest thing he’d ever owned, which might have been the saddest thing he’d ever had to admit to himself. It was tailored with the refined, tight particulars of a Britannian high school uniform, off-white with light blue trim. Blue, secretly-rubber gloves were fashioned to mimic style, as was the neckerchief (which couldn’t possibly be functional). The look was topped by a cap sporting the initials ‘AA’ engraved on a silver plaque. That last struck Ryuji as maybe a touch too military - but he had to admit, he looked good.

He smiled at himself in the mirror, tried for cheer, “Hi, I’m Ryuji. I’ll be-” 

He shook his head: too informal. Took a deep breath, braced himself, bowed at the waist. Stayed down a moment too long, mentally kicked himself. Britannians didn’t bow like that.

He placed a fist over his heart, kneeled just slightly, bowing his head, “Good day, my lord. I’m Ryuji Sakamato: it’s my first day so… I don’t fuckin’ know, be gentle?”

_This is never going to work. You’re gonna make an idiot of yourself like always and they’ll throw your ass to the curb._

Breathing deeply again, Ryuji smacked his cheeks for that thought. He had to relax: all he was doing right now was making a whole lot out of a whole little. He’d never got anywhere in life by overthinking things; why start now?

Ryuji slid open the door to the next room. The sleeping mat there was folded up, as was a small bag with a note pinned on it on the coffee table. Mom was already at work - how she did it, Ryuji would never know. He’d taken this job not least to help her out - things had always been tough since his father had died in the Invasion. He didn’t exactly have the best head for numbers, or the best eyes for reading people, but he was pretty sure they were getting worse.

Mom had done all she could to keep him in school, keep him from getting completely uprooted like so many kids had been by the war. Hell, in their shitty two-rooms-and-a-toilet, she’d made sure he had his own room. Ryuji owed her more than he could ever possibly hope to repay.

So he was going to hold this job for at least a day, damn it. And if holding it got him a benefit or two that wasn’t purely altruistic, well, he wouldn’t cry about it.

He gave another look at his dapper self, all dressed up and ready for Britannian high society. No matter what he did, he didn’t think he was going to shake this feeling of being an impostor. Whoever this was in the mirror, he couldn’t possibly be the same borderline delinquent loudmouth who’d consistently been at or near the bottom of his class for the last year?

He could be, damn it. Any day could be the one to change.

Speaking of: a distant bell told Ryuji it was time to stop admiring what he might be and remember what he was. He glowered at his other uniform, rumpled and tossed aside.

The Britannian clothes’ style came at the cost of the time it took to peel them off. Ryuji was fairly certain for a heart-stopping second that he’d torn them, which would have taken explaining. But that was just a nervous mind playing tricks on him.

His school uniform was decidedly easier to put on, but shabbier for it. He tossed on a red shirt (‘NO MO’ RULES,’ the splash demanded), and his school’s black pants and jacket. His clothes for work he was more careful with, neatly folding them and gingerly placing them in his bag, struggling only a little to fit his hat. Ryuji smiled at the small victory, “There. I’m a regular god damn butler already.”

One last look in the mirror. Hat hair worked well enough with his generally disheveled ensemble. This looked more like Ryuji. He smirked, fed off of his reflection’s show of confidence, ready to the day.

Making sure the apartment was locked (Mom had let him have it when he’d forgot a few years ago - enough so that he hadn’t forgotten since), he tried to keep quiet on the apartment stairs. He didn’t know the neighbors as well as maybe he should, but Ryuji knew some of them worked nights.

In the stairwell’s flickering, unreliable lights, he took the chance to check the note from Mom. ‘ _Ryuji,_ ’ it read, ‘ _I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you off today. But I want you to know how proud of you I am. There’s a special treat to celebrate your big day today. Remember to breathe and remember to smile, and I know you’ll do just fine. Good luck, I love you - Mom._ ’ 

He paused to check the bag. A sandwich in a plastic bag, whose contents he didn’t quite notice because of the rice ball above it. Ryuji didn’t know when Mom had found the time to make it, but felt himself flush with embarrassment: _It’s just a job, Mom. Don’t need to make such a big deal about it_. Then again, neither did he. Maybe that was the point.

On the streets, he picked up the pace - start the day off right, don’t be late. Broken Shinjuku loomed around him: his block wasn’t quite the ruin that some of the ghetto was. He’d heard that in the worst parts of town, it was hard to tell which shells of buildings were abandoned and which were supposed to be lived in. 

Bustle was minimal: he’d managed to hit the sweet spot between the dawn rush heading to the Settlement and later morning’s workers who kept the ghetto running. Here and there Ryuji passed schoolmates dawdling on their way - given how shifty Takeishi and Nakaoka acted when they noticed him, he was pretty sure they were actually skipping. Ordinarily, he might join them - today, he couldn’t afford the risk of being held after class. He pretended he hadn’t noticed them.

“Eleven!” Ryuji didn’t know how he’d known that was directed at him, but he stopped instinctively. Unconsciously, his hands went to rest in his back pockets, but he remembered to stop them. Keep them where the patrol could see them.

It was hard to tell whether or not his street’s patrol this week was made of proper Britannians or honorary ones. The black helmets that covered their scalps and eyes made all of them just look like robots, a visual not aided by the plates of their body armor. There were two. One, the speaker, had his rifle over his shoulder - the other held it as if any second could turn into a combat situation. Maybe it could: Ryuji had heard there'd been a terrorist attack a few weeks back over by the ghetto’s military base.

“Where are you off to in such a rush?” the speaker demanded. 

Ryuji had scoffed before he could think to stop himself. Oh well: in for a penny, in for a pound, “Uh, this new place called school?” Those were okay last words. He remembered to pepper in, “Officer.”

The patrolman’s hand clenched on the grip of his rifle. He growled, “Slow it down. Someone’s going to think you have something to be running from. They might not be so kind as me to stop and ask you what it is.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” the words were hollow and automatic and Ryuji and the officer both knew as much.

Apparently determined to get the last word in, the officer said, “We have worse things to protect this ghetto from than a dumb kid late for class. Don’t waste our time like this again.”

His silent partner gestured with his weapon to indicate that Ryuji was free to go. As he turned, he faintly heard one of them mutter, “Don’t know why we bother giving the monkeys an education at all. Waste of tax money.” Ryuji gritted his teeth and kept his head down. He waited until he rounded the block to break out into a run again.

His sarcasm aside, the Empress Marianne vi Britannia Charter School actually was one of the newer buildings in the ghetto. It was in fact one of the newest buildings Ryuji had ever seen. Built in Britannian style, it was out of place in the ruins of Shinjuku - it looked like some lord had decided to build a summer home in the middle of the city. Spiraling hedges peaked curiously over the protective wall around the school.

The buckle on his hat, it turned out, set off the metal detector at the gate, getting Ryuji a completely unearned talking-to from the guard manning it. Apparently, he was wasting people’s time again, though the other uniform wasn’t itself a problem. He’d heard that some pre-Invasion schools hadn’t allowed students to hold jobs. That was one restriction Britannia had actually lifted.

Classes dragged, as they always did. Ryuji tried harder than usual to focus in English. Fluency had been drilled into him with the desperate necessity of occupation, but knowing _more_ could only help. His efforts there, though, exhausted him for the rest of the day. It didn’t help that Ms. Kawakami tended to drone when it came to history. He and she both were almost asleep by third period.

Free period was still misnamed. A couple weeks ago, some enterprising young hopeful had snuck over the wall at night and spray painted a bunch of Japanese Naval flags on the inner wall, as well as a glaring red, ‘ _Banzai!_ ’ kanji on a plaque commemorating Emvi B’s namesake. When the culprit failed to come forth, the whole school had been punished: free period became ‘clean the wall’ period. The first week they’d done it under gunmen’s watch. Then bigger issues than school graffiti had drawn the occupation force’s attention elsewhere.

Since the paint had long ago set in, the job had evolved from scrubbing it away to painting over it. Armed with a long-handled paint roller, Ryuji saw Yuki Mishima approaching out of the corner of his eye. His voice was unnecessarily low and conspiratorial, “Good practice for later today, huh?”

Mishima had put in a good word for Ryuji during his job hunt, and so he owed him one. That didn’t make him any less ridiculous a person to deal with, “I mean I guess so.”

“Don’t lay it on so thick, Sakamoto- _kun_ ,” Mishima noted, and Ryuji tried to decide if he’d imagined the emphasis on the honorific. He pointed to a glob of beige, “It’s a waste of paint, and it’ll stand out later. Don’t worry - I’ll get you trained up proper once we’re on the job.”

A part of him wanted to remind Mishima that it was, in fact, just slapping paint on a wall. He seriously doubted there was any secret technique to it, and certainly not one Mishima could’ve uncovered from a few extra afternoons of practice.

What he said instead was, “Thanks, man.” He wondered where he’d learned to be so polite.

Mishima seemed to like it. He patted Ryuji on the back and set about repainting his own stretch of wall. Throughout the rest of what had once been free period, he continued to talk Ryuji’s ear off about work. Mishima must have thought it was genuine advice, but it felt too much like being talked down to for Ryuji to take it seriously (he actually said, “In this, I’m your _senpai_ ,” with a straight face). Side by side, their blotches of paint looked the same to Ryuji.

The brief blip of activity only served to highlight just how dull the rest of the school day was. Ten minutes back, Ryuji told himself that he was glad it was so boring - his mind would be too numb to be anxious. Eleven minutes back, he called himself out on such a stupid lie.

Ryuji didn’t retain anything from his classes after free period. He felt like he flew from the classroom, even as Ms. Kawakami reminded everyone that the _Hamlet_ essays he hadn’t thought about and wasn’t going to do were due tomorrow.

Students bustled, exchanged plans. Anyone without work lamented the stress of the job hunt, while anyone who had it tried to put it off as long as they could. In the Settlement, this would’ve been the time they devoted to after school clubs or sports teams. No one in Shinjuku had the time. Even if they did, the Empire only gave Emvi B the bare minimum to keep it afloat.

A couple of upperclassmen crowded around a beat up portable tv, which would serve as a nice status symbol until it inevitably got its owner mugged. The broadcaster gravely toned about a recent bombing in Osaka that the Japanese Liberation Front was taking credit for. A boy with savage eyes growled, “Wish they’d cut the shit and show us footage of the rubble.”

Another spat, “You know it’s gonna be us they come down on. Friggin’ JLF needs to learn how to pick its battles.”

Ryuji was relieved to hear the group fade into the background behind him: he had a feeling that was about to get tense. It was like there was a switch someone flipped in you once you hit a certain age - suddenly, you felt strongly, _violently_ for or against the resistance. No one had hit that switch for Ryuji yet, and honestly, life was stressful enough when he was only worried about himself.

Outside the school, a white van waited. It bore the same silver AA as Ryuji’s uniform, stenciled onto its rear doors. The sides sported the weird, stylized spearpoint symbol that Britannian nobility liked. Flower dee… no, floor di something. Like so many things from the Settlement, it had an armed escort: two Britannian soldiers, one to drive, one currently searching Mishima’s bag. They were more thorough than the guards at the school gate had been, but still didn’t find anything on Mishima. The boy bowed, murmured thanks, and scurried into the back of the van. 

Ryuji must’ve gawked for one moment too long, because the soldier who’d searched Mishima barked, “Eleven. You headed into the Settlement?”

Stiffening, Ryuji yelped, “Yes, sir!” before he’d even registered the question.

It still made it real: even if it was just for the afternoon, even if he was coming right back, he was getting out. It didn’t matter how condescendingly the soldier demanded to go through his bag, Ryuji couldn’t keep the goofy grin from his face. When he thanked the soldier for letting him get in the van, he caught himself meaning it.

Seating was arranged so that one row of passengers faced the other row. It looked a little like a transport in some war movie, but more cushy. Not _much_ more, the van was packed full enough that some people’s knees were going to get friendly. Did they just try to cram the full cleaning staff into one vehicle?

Maybe: there were already a couple dozen of them in here. There were still empty spaces beside him when Ryuji slid in (next to Mishima, which he supposed was inevitable).

He was the only one who stifled a laugh when Ms. Kawakami came through the rear doors. Which _had_ to mean he was the only newbie, because she looked ridiculous. These uniforms were supposed to be modeled after the ones Britannian schoolchildren wore. On a tired adult woman, they just didn’t look right.

She consulted with a clipboard - honestly, Ryuji was getting déjà vu. Maybe class had just restarted. Like, budgets got slashed and now their classroom was a box on wheels. 

Ms. Kawakami started and looked up from her list - straight at him. Ryuji couldn’t quite pin down what that look meant. Shock. Disgust? Dread. Definitely some combination of them, no matter how much she forced on a smile, “Sakamoto- _san_ , for a second there I thought you were a misprint.”

And that was all eyes on him. Mostly everyone just seemed bored or annoyed by the holdup, but there were the select few who shared Ms. Kawakami’s weird expression. And look: Ryuji got it. He was a tough, dumb kid with dyed hair and a loud mouth. It screamed ‘delinquent’ to other Japanese people - and something worse to Britannians. Everybody who cared enough to think about it in the van had to be going, ‘I hope he doesn’t screw this up for the rest of us.’

Ryuji hoped that too.

Didn’t mean he was gonna just accept judgement, though. He hunched in his seat, forcing some gruff ‘what do I care what you think?’ into his voice, “Well I’m not. Lookin’ forward to workin’ with you, teach.”

Ms. Kawakami looked at what must’ve been the schedule or something. Even through her nose, that was too heavy a sigh not to notice. Like was she even trying? Anyone could see through her faked brightness, she said, “Suzui- _san_ , you’re on training duty: you can show Sakamoto- _san_ the ropes.”

Wait, Suzui? Like, Suzui Shiho from Class A?

“Gotcha,” she said, across from him and a few people down. He looked her way, and she flashed a lazy v-sign, “Hey, Sakamoto- _kun_. Glad to have you onboard.”

Yeah, honestly, this was fine by Ryuji. This mimic of Ashford’s uniform was doing a lot more for Suzui than it was for Ms. Kawakami: girl had legs for days. They ran in different circles - different classes and her busy schedule - so it wasn’t like he _knew_ knew her. But Ryuji wasn’t gonna complain about trying to change that.

He leaned back in his seat, returning her greeting with a nod. He didn’t _consciously_ flex, but hey, who could tell what his body might do on its own? “Thanks. I’ll try not to let you down.”

Oh, that was definitely a wink, he was _killing_ it, “Better not.”

And there he went feeling big until Mishima whispered, “Seriously, she’ll kick your ass.”

For real? He glanced back over at Suzui, assessed the danger. He couldn’t find any. That smile seemed downright sweet. Like maybe Mishima was just intimidated by a pretty face. Ryuji wasn’t gonna have that problem.

When the last couple of staff crammed into the vehicle, the soldier outside did a brief check off of everyone who was supposed to be there. All present and accounted for, they got moving. Ryuji wished there were windows so he could actually see when they entered the Settlement. Not least because this was the quietest ride full of students he’d ever been on. Conversation stayed reserved and hushed: he wasn’t sure if that was because he’d brought the mood down by existing or if they were always this quiet for the guards up front.

There was a brief interlude where the van stopped and all their bags were confiscated. It kinda seemed redundant to Ryuji, but whatever. After a couple minutes, Mishima murmured, “Taking longer than usual. You think it’s because of the attack?”

Ryuji shrugged, hoping that’d be that. No luck. Mishima rubbed his hands together nervously, observing, “Feels like they’re getting more and more frequent. I kinda wonder if Kyoto’s planning something.”

“Dude,” Ryuji hissed, “Can you _not_ talk about Kyoto with the cops right outside?”

That at least shut him up. Even if he did get that kicked puppy look. Ryuji sighed to himself, threw him a bone, “They’re… uh… probably just being thorough. Or jerking us around.”

Mishima laughed a little at that, “Yeah. Making us wait around just to see us squirm.” He blew a raspberry, muttered, “Sucks.”

“Yeah,” Ryuji agreed - more just stating a fact than with any real feeling. They’d all had plenty of time to get used to this. It wasn’t like it was ever gonna get better, so that was all you could do, “There a lotta checkpoints?”

Mishima shrugged, “One at school, one entering the Settlement, one at Ashford. It usually goes quicker than this.”

Huh. So they were officially going into Britannian territory. Now Ryuji _really_ wished he had a decent view outside. He’d almost been too little to remember it, but this had been his city once. He’d always imagined himself seeing it shining off in the distance the first time he came back, wind in his hair and the sun on his face.

And like, that was a dumb thing to imagine for a number of reasons. But the fantasy still beat slumming it in the back of a van in the dark.

They finally got their bags back, after which they waited through another quick check of their pass cards. And _of course_ there was a holdup for Ryuji.

Another masked soldier held up the card, looked from it to Ryuji. It to him. One more time, and finally, the obvious observation, “Your hair’s black in this photo, Eleven.”

No shit. Ryuji sat up straight, said, “Sir. It’s an old photo.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I dyed it?”

“Don’t fucking be cute. Any reason you dyed it?”

_Because I saw an old photo of my dad and it felt weird how much he looked like me?_

“No reason, sir.”

The soldier grunted, “You’re sure you’re not trying to pass for Britannian?”

_God, not everything is about you guys, y’know._

“No sir, not at all, sir.”

“Good. Because you don’t, at all,” then he handed the card back. Ryuji muttered thanks, which might’ve been the stupidest and most humiliating part of this routine, and then the soldier moved on. And then _finally_ they were on the move again.

The rest of the trip was maybe twenty minutes of boring low conversation. At least it was a smoother ride than in the ghetto: some of the others were taking the moment to catch a power nap. Ryuji was still too antsy for that.

They all snapped back up like they’d been awake the whole time once the van stopped. Everyone’s posture got a little better too - it must’ve been the right move, so Ryuji tried sitting up straight too.

The doors to the van opened from the outside, and one of their guards called, “Everyone out. Single file, palms up.”

God, they just weren’t taking _any_ chances. And yeah, whatever just happened in Osaka had happened. This still felt extreme. Ryuji leaned a little Mishima’s way, muttered, “It _always_ like this?” He actually shushed him. The nerve.

When Ryuji’s turn came, he lined up the same as anyone. He had to take a moment to catch his breath once they were out, though. Ashford had unexpectedly taken it away.

There was this thing Ryuji vaguely remembered from before the Invasion. He and a friend had headed down to the bank of the Sakai River to ride bikes, or look for turtles, or maybe just to run around because they were kids and they were dumb. And in his head, Ryuji knew that it had always been muddy and muggy. But his heart was also absolutely sure that afternoons by the Sakai had been beautiful and picturesque. Healthy green grass had stretched for miles. The sky was just the right shade of blue, its only clouds purely decorative. Ryuji’s memory gave everything a lens flare, like anything decently perfect and lost.

Ashford looked like that. It was all open skies and rolling hills dotted with Britannian students. They smiled and laughed like they not only hadn’t a care in the world, there weren’t any to be had. 

Ryuji caught himself profoundly jealous. Maybe somewhere like here, he would’ve had a chance.

Then someone gave him a sharp poke in the back, and he remembered that Ashford had not _actually_ stopped time for him to admire it. And that he wasn’t a guest to be admiring the campus. He was a servant to maintain it. Ryuji told himself that he didn’t care, which he knew was a lie, but a safe lie. The kind of lie you told yourself to get yourself through the day. 

He and the rest of the cleaning staff were lined up by a brick wall that must’ve been the rear of the main building. Ryuji _assumed_ it was the main building, because it was the biggest and the nearest, but who knows? Ashford Academy seemed to have a small village worth of miniature villas sprinkled through its fields. Was this really just _part_ of the Settlement?

A quick headcount (and indeed, none of them had jumped ship since the last one), then finally there was one last frisk by the Academy’s assigned guards. Ryuji held out his arms, submitted to a pat-down by yet another faceless soldier. 

There was a pause, and Ryuji was absurdly sure for a second they’d found something. Which, like, how could they? He didn’t have anything. The soldier asked - in Japanese, no less, “No uniform?”

It threw him. He hadn’t even been called ‘Eleven,’ “Uh… no, I’ve got one. I just haven’t changed yet, sir. Didn’t want to be late.”

They nodded, “I see. Make sure you make a note of the time you finish putting it on: they’re paying you to clean, not change.”

Ryuji sputtered a little, “I… it’s my first day, sir.”

“Still. Let this be a learning experience,” the soldier patted him on the shoulder, “Go on. Use your head next time, kid.”

And that was that. _They_ moved right along to the next pat-down, not letting the interaction break their stride. So Ryuji resolved to do the same. He was going to get _paid_ to bum around in what may or may not have literally been Heaven. Nothing and no one was going to ruin that for him.

There was little else in the way of orientation: once they were all ruled out as a potential risk, Ashford’s security seemed content to forget them and let them be. They spared a few quick words with Ms. Kawakami, then sauntered off. Soldiers in the Settlement seemed so much more _relaxed_ than in the ghetto. They were no less pervasive though.

Ms. Kawakami, for a wonder, seemed to be resuming a position of authority. She combed through her clipboard - Ryuji wondered if she was moving people around on it to make her own day easier, calling out - in English: they must have been officially in a work capacity here, “Ishizuka, Ono, there’s been another accident in the science building. Focus on that - I’ll send someone if it’s taking too much time. Sugita, Itō, you’re on the dorms. Remember to _knock_ , we can’t get any more complaints.” Scandalous? “Ichijo, Nagase, you two will be in charge of landscaping.” She then proceeded to rattle off their team. Four more boys - Mishima among them - who each deflated a little when called to duty. Looking at Ashford’s manicured lawns and distant, intricate topiaries, Ryuji couldn’t blame them.

So on and so forth she went, arriving eventually at, “And Suzui, you’re going to be handling the gym again. Please try to keep Sakamoto in line.” 

Mishima sighed, glancing at Ryuji, “Wanna swap places?”

Not in a million years, “You got this, _senpai_.”

He let out something between a chuckle and just a generally pained noise. Patting Ryuji’s back, he said, “I guess this is where we part ways. Good luck” 

“Same,” Ryuji said. Mishima nodded, maybe a bit too solemnly than was called for. He jogged off to join the rest of his team - picking up speed to catch up when they headed off without him. Honestly, of the two of them, he was probably the one who’d need all the luck.

Though Ryuji seemed to be the one getting it. Suzui called out, “Sakamoto- _kun_ , gym’s this way.” She didn’t quite wait for him, but also didn’t pick up the pace until he was by her side. Along the way, she switched to Japanese, her voice suddenly airy and sweet and utterly not matching the instructions she was giving, “So here’s pro tip number one: keep your eyes on the ground between buildings. I know this is all bright and shiny and new, but you’re not sightseeing.”

Ryuji was at a loss, and so just followed her lead. Even if the ground was as much of a sight to see as anything else, “Uh… why’re you talking like that?”

She giggled, which threw him completely off his game. It was just so cute but also so fake? “Because none of these kids actually speak Japanese. We’re supposed to be invisible. This is what invisible looks like.”

“That’s…” there were a lot of things that was. Ryuji figured he didn’t have time to list them all, “That’s really stupid.”

“It’s all about _tone_ ,” she said, her own voice still full of cotton candy, “You can basically say whatever you want as long as you’re careful how you say it.”

“Yeah, I dunno that I’m as good an actor as you.” That was both true, he figured, and a smooth bit of flattery.

And hey, Suzui winked. But then she said, “Then you’ll need to keep your mouth shut.”

With that delivery, it hit just low enough to startle a laugh out of Ryuji, “Alright, fair.”

“Well don’t set me up like that,” Suzui said, settling into a bit more natural a tone as she headed into the domed mini-mansion that must’ve been the gym, “And don’t keep me waiting too long. Bathrooms are down that hall, go change.”

As far as Ryuji could tell, anything they did here today was just going to be redundant. The halls already seemed pretty sterile, white faux-marble lining the walls. Who _carpeted_ a freaking gym? Britannians, apparently, with an elaborately patterned plush walkway. This whole place was a freaking palace.

And all Ryuji could think about was the fact that the Empress Marianne vi Britannia Charter School didn’t even _have_ a gym. They just did phys-ed outside in the courtyard, and were glad that they got _that_.

Ryuji was trying his hardest not to compare Ashford and Emvi B, but it really just felt like Britannia had said, ‘I don’t care what you get for the Britannian school as long as it means you don’t spend that money on the Eleven one.’ He’d _known_ that was gonna be how things were here. Hell, that wasn’t even something Britannia tried to keep a secret or anything. They’d been shoving how their inherent superiority meant they deserved better than their Eleven subjects down Ryuji’s throat for seven years. He should’ve been numb to it by now. It shouldn’t have pissed him off.

God, but he wanted to punch something, though.

But that wasn’t _okay_. He was on the job, for one thing. For another, he was just _stronger_ than this. The world could hit him as much as it wanted - and some days it felt like it _really_ wanted to. But he could take it.

Mom dealt with bullshit like this every day. Ryuji was his mother’s son. So he could do it too.

At least bathrooms were more or less the same. They were maybe a _little_ cleaner and better maintained - none of the sinks leaked, and there were multiple stalls. But at least _here_ all things were equal.

Everyone was the same on a throne of porcelain. Ryuji wondered if he should write that down somewhere. He wished he’d swiped a sharpie from homeroom.

 _No_. Focus. 

Ryuji slipped into a stall and changed, stuffing his school uniform into his bag with much less care than he removed his work clothes. It occurred to him that he didn’t actually know what he was gonna do with the bag. Whatever. That was a problem for later. _Soon_ later, but later.

He was glad that he’d practiced wearing his staff uniform this morning: it made it quicker and easier to put on now. The buckles still gave him a little trouble, and it felt a bit tighter than this morning. But it meant that he didn’t leave Suzui hanging. And when he left the stall, checked himself out briefly in the mirror, he still looked just as dapper as before. His reflection looked him in the eye, and he warned it, “Don’t screw this up.”

Suzui was waiting for him just outside. She’d already gotten her hands on a pair of mops and a plastic blue bucket on wheels, on which were hanging various bleaches and sanitizers. Lockers lined the walls, and when he came out she was polishing one. She spared a glance over her shoulder, and got to her feet, “Hey, look at you.”

If that wasn’t a compliment, too bad, Ryuji was going to take it as one, “Right?” Ah, he should’ve said, ‘looks better on you.’ Too late now. He hefted a mop, “So what’re we doing? We just jumping right into this, or…?”

“Lockers first. Keeps us from having to mop up after ourselves later,” yeah, actually, that was obvious now that she mentioned it. Ryuji returned the mop, got a towel and some spray instead. He set about wiping up the row above Suzui’s, generally having no idea how he was doing. It looked as sparkling before as after. As if sensing his thought, Suzui explained, “Honestly, we’re mostly killing time. No one uses _these_ lockers, but Ashford’s got a ton of clubs and stuff. We’re not supposed to interrupt them at practice, so we just gotta wait for them to finish up.”

Ryuji nodded, “So like, you said we’re supposed to be invisible. Do we… do we avoid eye contact, or…?”

“Obviously don’t speak to any of them unless spoken to. I’m pretty sure that company policy is that requests take priority, so follow any orders you get,” she shrugged, “Don’t worry too much: a lot of them don’t even know we’re here.”

“What, do they think that their lockers clean themselves?”

She let out a breath through her nose that Ryuji decided to count as a laugh, “Probably.” There was a beat, and she added thoughtfully, “Some of them are alright, though. If you’re a good boy, I’ll introduce you.”

Ryuji was skeptical. He’d never met an alright Britannian. But maybe he’d also never been a good boy, so that could be why. One way to find out.

Suzui quieted down after that, focused on cleaning. Assuming that ‘don’t speak unless spoken to’ applied to her too, Ryuji just followed her lead. It meant things were quiet, outside of the sounds of the actual gym part of the gym in use. Someone more disciplined would probably have found it relaxing.

Ryuji just wanted to fill the silence. It didn’t really matter with what. Thankfully, Suzui eventually did that for him.

“I’m surprised they don’t have you on gardening duty,” she said matter-of-factly. Did Ryuji imagine the appraising look in her eyes? He tried to stand up straighter. And tougher, if such a thing was possible, “You look like the manual labor type.”

He had no idea what to do with that, “Thank you?”

“Sure,” she said, which didn’t help. They’d reached the end of a hallway, and she straightened up for a moment to stretch before they rounded the corner. Ryuji was a perfect gentleman, and so not only did he look away, he also squatted down to take the bottom row for the next part. If she acknowledged that, she didn’t do it in a way that he caught on. A few more lockers of quiet, and she added, “I just mean you look strong. Like a guy who can get stuff done.” Now _that_ was a compliment. Before he could respond to it, Suzui said, “Honestly, a bunch of folks figured that you’d have gone military by now.”

He paused. He barely knew what to say when recruitment posters suggested that to him. When the thought was coming from someone right next to him, seemingly expecting an answer, he just froze.

When he finally found his voice, he caught it saying things he’d never intended, “That… uh… I dunno. That just wouldn’t feel right.”

Fuck. That sounded way too grave. You had to say shit like that pretending it was a joke. Otherwise, people noticed, and you all had to remember the situation you were in.

Suzui was startled out of her work, as well as the perpetual chill she’d been showing off. She leapt back from him like he’d burst into flame, gasping, “Oh fuck. You lost someone, didn’t you?”

Ryuji had just noticed his hand clenching and unclenching around the spray bottle. A part of him almost lied, but the other part must’ve gone rogue, muttering, “My dad.” 

“I… I”m sorry,” probably for want of anything else to do with her hands, Suzui thumbed at the knot of her tie, “I wasn’t thinking… I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

With a shrug that weighed like the world, Ryuji said, “Don’t be. He was a bastard.”

“Still, though.”

“Yeah, still though,” he agreed, “I don’t _hate_ Britannia for killing him.” Honestly, he should’ve been _thanking_ them. If it weren’t for the Invasion, his old man would probably still be beating the shit out of his mom. Instead, the rest of life had taken over that job.

But he couldn’t just _say_ that. He’d already unloaded _way_ too much baggage for day one on the job. Better to stop now.

Even if stopping just meant that he left that thought dangling. Which apparently, Suzui wasn’t going to allow him to do, “But…?”

He shook his head, “No but. I just don’t… I dunno. I don’t think I could fight for them. Y’know?”

Suzui nodded absently. She looked back at the row of lockers, took in a breath to talk. The words didn’t come in time, so she let it pass and tried again, “I sorta thought about enlisting back when they first started pitching it at us in middle school.”

She said it like a confession. And yeah, you didn’t just _tell_ people that you were thinking about going to work for the occupiers. The invaders. But everybody knew that everybody else _thought_ about it. Trade the ghetto for the Settlement. Servitude for citizenship. A foot on your back for a place in the sun. It was a no brainer: all it cost was a collar.

Sometimes, Ryuji figured the only reason he hadn’t was because he was bad at following orders. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, “I mean… we all did. I think.”

Suzui nodded, maybe a little too quick and too relieved to agree, “I just… I couldn’t imagine pointing a gun at people I _knew_ for Britannia. And if people I knew weren’t alright, why was anyone? So I just… figured I’d find my own way.”

Ryuji smiled sadly, gestured around the empty hall, “And here we are?”

“Here we are,” she agreed softly. 

It was… one of the most frank and real conversations that Ryuji had ever had about the occupation. The weight on his chest wasn’t so much _lifted_ as it was… shared, maybe? He wasn’t the only one. You’d have to be an idiot to look around and not see that, but to hear someone else say it was what freedom must have felt like.

Honestly, he didn’t know if it was good or bad. Because yeah, this instant release of being two kindred souls struggling against decks stacked against them was great. But both of them were going to have to go back to pretending like nothing was wrong. Maybe it’d have been better to never have said anything.

Suzui must’ve realized that too. She smiled at him, starting to look more like the girl Mishima had been so afraid of in the van. The fire wasn’t _back_ in her voice, but it was trying to get a spark going, “I’m sorry I said anything. C’mon, they’ll tan our hides if they catch us slacking.”

Ryuji just nodded. That was all he really could say to that. They settled back into polishing what didn’t need polishing - just waiting to _actually_ get to work. He wished he could think of something natural to distract them. Because he imagined that she must’ve been dwelling on things too. 

As it was, he settled lamely on, “When do we actually start… y’know, _actually_ cleaning things?”

“Do you want to start on the bathrooms?” she asked, only a little curtly. He winced. Dismissal, then - and to go do gross shit too. Super. Without waiting for a response, she said, “Take window cleaner for the glass and bleach for everything else. Extra gloves too.”

‘kay. So this was just gonna be a Ryuji job. That was fine. He got what he needed, and tried to retreat without glancing back at Suzui. He was probably imagining her shaking a little, still crouched by the lockers. It still felt somehow wrong to leave her to it.

Returning to the boys’ room, he and his reflection locked eyes again. Completely unprompted, it screamed, “REALLY!?” at him. He tossed down the spray bottles on the sink counter, only slightly registering relief when they didn’t spill everywhere, “Real _fucking_ smooth, Ryuji! Just dump out your whole friggin’ purse on the first day why dontcha!!!”

You know what the _right_ answer to ‘hey, you ever thought about enlisting’ was? ‘Haha, me? Thanks, I guess.’

Like, _how_ could he have handled that that badly? Ryuji understood that he was an awkward kid, but there was a reason nobody ever talked about this kind of shit. Only an idiot looked at impossible opposition and did anything but bend. The only people who talked about the war and the occupation the way Ryuji had were psychos and terrorists. Which was probably why everyone he met thought _he_ was a psycho or a terrorist.

He glared at himself, growling, “And it could’ve been different here, but you _had_ to open your mouth…”

He didn’t wait for a response, storming off into one of the stalls and just _attacking_ the toilet with bleach. It was still boring and mindless work, but at least it felt like there was some kind of progress being made. Things in the bathroom were more obviously filthy than in the hallway. Not overly so - after all, the whole reason Ryuji and the rest of the janitorial team were there was for a daily cleaning.

Because shit, this was going to be _every day_. 

And it wasn’t the work that bothered him, not really. It was just… he’d imagined this as something different. A brief taste of what freedom was going to be like if he ever got _out_. Not just another showcase of yet another place he didn’t belong and wasn’t welcome, where he could once again prove to everyone around him that he was an unstable idiot best avoided at all costs. So what. He’d been wrong. It just meant that Ashford Academy was the same as _everywhere else_. 

So _why_ was he upset? How _dare_ he be upset!

Ryuji shook his head, trying to shake every line of thought out of it before he, like, ripped off a piece of a toilet or something. God. The mindlessness of this job was going to turn out to be the worst part. It left his mind free to wander, and when it did that it apparently it liked to lash out.

He took a second, breathed in. Bad idea, too much bleach. He fought the sneeze, but it won in the end. Wrinkling his nose, he finished the thought and breathed out. He _had_ to calm down. Think about something else.

The door to the bathroom opened, letting in loud, abrasive English, “fucking cowards, y’know. If they had any balls at all, they’d only be going after _military_ targets!” _There_ was something else: ask and you shall receive. Ryuji had to stop asking for things, if this was what he got.

A more nasally voice outside responded, “Dude, if they had any balls, they wouldn’t’a lost the war. Or at least know how to honor a treaty.”

Fuck. This stall was clean. Which meant Ryuji had to go out there and deal with _that_. Maybe he could just… throw up. Then clean that. Or vanish.

Or be a friggin’ man and get out of the stall. There were only two of them: their uniforms matched Ryuji’s except for the palette: black where his was white, gold where his was blue. One of them, glued to his phone, sported a bandana the colors of the Britannian flag. The other had somewhat long blue hair - honestly, not a bad dye job. If it even was one, Britannians were weird like that.

Ryuji’s first mistake, was, of course, immediate. Eye contact. Fuck.

Both the students glared at him. He flipped them a quick peace sign, then dragged his eyes back onto the floor. Picking up his bucket, he moved on to the next stall. One of them spat, “Hey, Eleven.” And he froze.

God, this was gonna suck. He tried to remember the subservient smile he’d thrown together this morning, tried it on as he turned around, “Yeah?”

Bandana was trying to set him on fire with his eyes. The one with blue hair inspected a camera, feigning disinterest. He asked, “You mean, ‘yes, my lord,’ right, Eleven?”

Come on, man. Ryuji tried to keep his face neutral and the sarcasm out of his voice, “Sorry, my lord. What is your title?”

“Duke of None of Your Business,” Bandana spat. He stalked toward Ryuji. The student was bigger than him, which might’ve made him intimidating if Ryuji didn’t have more muscle on him. He held out his phone, growled, “Look.”

Ryuji did. It displayed pictures from a news story - the bombing in Osaka earlier today, he supposed. It looked like a car bomb - a gas engine, judging by the burned out husk. Sakuradite wouldn’t have left any remains to gawp at.

It wasn’t the first bombing Ryuji had seen - it wouldn’t even have been the first he’d seen in person. Sometimes the JLF decided they needed their message seen somewhere in the ghetto, and if that meant the people they were fighting for went up in flames too, then everyone liked a good martyr.

He still didn’t like the blurry, charred remains near the car. The shot wasn’t the best, so he couldn’t really tell how many there were. It didn’t look like a lot - maybe like two or three. One of them was smaller than he was comfortable thinking of.

Discomfort, here, was good. He gulped, and Bandana scoffed, “Yeah, it’s fuckin’ horrifying, right? So why the fuck do you _do_ it?”

Ryuji grit his teeth, “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me! Why do you fucking monkeys think it’s okay to blow up civilians?”

“I don’t know, ma- sir,” Ryuji straightened his back, put both hands behind his back. It looked docile, and he could squeeze his wrist when it got to be too much instead of taking a swing, “Sir, I’m not with the JLF.” 

Blue looked at him, seemingly sizing him up, “Yeah, honestly, you look more like an assimilating coward than a terrorist one. That why you dyed your hair?” For fuck’s sake. This student, at least, seemed less belligerent, “Kirk, you should back off before it hits you. Might get another _classmate_.”

They were low and stupid blows and if Ryuji just breathed, they would bounce right off. They weren’t even angry at _him_. Someone else had done them harm, and now they wanted to strike back at the closest thing they could find to their wrongers. Ryuji knew _all_ about that.

The right thing to do now was bow. Every fiber of Ryuji’s being resisted, but still he removed his hat, squeezing it hard enough he thought he might tear it in half. He bent at the waist, so he didn’t have to look them in the eye - he knew he was never going to be able to put the remorse on his face that he could into his voice, “Sir - sirs. I truly, deeply apologize for the actions of the Japanese Liberation Front. They do not stand for me and I…” he faltered, but only because he’d lost the English word for ‘grieve’ when he needed it most. And he would _not_ say ‘cry.’ So he quickly settled on the awkward, “I feel pain in my heart for the dead.”

Something wet hit the back of Ryuji’s head. He snapped back up, and had his fist clenched before he caught himself. He’d been spit on before. It hadn’t been worth an assault charge then, it wasn’t worth one now. Which left him only with an empty fist and impotent rage.

And clearly they could see that. It was the first time he’d seen Bandana smile: it must’ve been easy to be smug behind a wall of imperial protection. Blue fiddled with his camera, considering. Apparently, Ryuji’s defeat before this proud soldier of Britannia wasn’t total enough: no picture. 

“Fine,” Ryuji said. There was a little too much venom in it, he tried to dial it back, “I get it.”

“Like you could,” Bandana growled, pushing past him into the stall, “Out of my way, Eleven.”

Blue just shrugged at him. He seemed more amused by all this than anything else, and had little interest in paying Ryuji any more mind other than backing his friend up. So Ryuji just got back to work: Bandana did his business, washed up (and left the sink running in jaw dropping pettiness), and the two went on their way. Blue had one last parting shot, “Make it sparkle, Eleven!”

When the door closed and Ryuji was sure they were gone, he muttered, “Fuck yourselves.” There was barely any fight in it. And he kept it in Japanese, just in case. But it felt better than just not standing up for himself, even if it was just _to_ himself.

At least the rest of cleaning the bathroom was uneventful. It gave him time to replay that conversation again and again and imagine all the things he _would’ve_ said if he could, would’ve _done_ if he were on a fair playing field.

Wait, that was worse.

Well, then at least the bathroom got aggressively cleaned. The whole team wouldn’t have to come by here for days.

He took in a few deep breaths, gathered up his supplies, and headed off to find Suzui. The halls were a little louder now: Ashford’s sports clubs must’ve just been getting out. Ryuji’s heart sank into his stomach, then lower, and then lower after that. Two Britannian students, and the conversation had gone like _that_. Was he going to have to go through that over and over again now until he snapped? Like, for real, could they just cuff him now and save everybody some time?

Those fears proved… not unfounded. Like, Ryuji’s logic was flawless, it’s just that apparently Bandana and Blue were just _the worst_. As long as he kept his head down, most students didn’t even notice him. They were too focused on their own lives - plans for the evening, how rough practice had been. Normal things that normal teenagers got to worry about.

There was no Suzui to be found, though. Maybe she was just that good at playing invisible. Or had ditched him.

Oh come on. That was just _trying_ to wallow in self-pity. He had to get over himself.

But more and more of the students were filing out of the building, and still no sign of her. It got to the point that Ryuji would have just gotten back to work, but except what he’d taken to the bathroom, Suzui had all their supplies. Seriously, where was she?

Ryuji almost walked past the door: the latest hallway (Ashford was a maze on your own, apparently) he’d headed down was almost empty, and he just barely heard the voices as he passed. But they were in Japanese. And now that he was pausing, and officially eavesdropping, that was definitely Suzui saying, “Wait a minute - I never agreed to-”

A man’s voice, deeper and with just a hint of threat, cut her off, “What did you _think_ I meant, then? Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”

“I just-”

Ryuji didn’t need to hear more: that all seemed compromising enough. He threw open the door - he would’ve _kicked_ it down if it had been locked. 

Somehow, Ryuji was most thrown by the fact that the aggressor was Japanese too. He was also bodybuilder huge. One massive hand was around Suzui’s forearm. Even with her struggling, he held her in place almost without effort.

Ryuji’s entrance at least surprised them both enough to change that. Suzui gasped, wriggling free and backing up until she bumped into the wall. She was a deer in headlights, wide eyes and a voice that wouldn’t work. There’d been so much fire in her earlier today, so much wind in her sails. And this giant had somehow just snuffed it all out.

And now he glowered Ryuji’s way, muttered, “Not again.” Again!?

“Hey jackass!” Ryuji’s heart was hammering in his chest, because this was a nosedive, and now he had to just keep up his form and hope there was a pool below, “How about you back off?”

“Kid, there’s a misunderstanding here.”

Oh, like _hell_ there was. Ryuji tried to puff himself up as much as he could, stalked into the room, “Yeah? So you _weren’t_ just pawing all over a teenager you sick-”

“Sakamoto- _kun_ , _no_ ,” Suzui hissed. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, and she wouldn’t meet his gaze, “I… he…” She didn’t have an excuse because there wasn’t one. Ryuji almost told her as much, but then she said, “There’s nothing you can do.” And it was so bleak and so empty, Ryuji almost believed her.

But not enough to keep from trying.

The giant crossed his arm and gave him a quick once over. Ryuji growled, and he laughed, “Listen, kid. I’m Suguru Kamoshida - I _teach_ here.” That meant nothing to Ryuji, so he just glared. Kamoshida sighed like he was the wronged one here, “I teach here because I’m an Honorary _Britannian_. Whereas you’re… well, to be honest, you’re _nothing_.”

He said it like that was that. ‘Britannia says I’m better than you, so run along while I assault this girl.’ 

And maybe he was right. What exactly was Ryuji going to do? Turn him in to campus police or whatever? So that he could gently explain to them that these Elevens were just lying, which they would instantly believe because it came from one of their own?

Yeah, but alternatively, fuck that shit, “‘kay. How about you _still_ back off?”

Suzui was shaking her head, wringing her hands like this, or something like this, had happened before. Fine: then she got to see a different ending this time. Kamoshida just laughed, “Tough guy.” He swaggered up to Ryuji - he stood nearly head and shoulders taller than him - he actually had to stoop so they were face to face, “What happens if I _don’t_? I answer to you?”

Ryuji snarled, “Maybe y’do.”

“Maybe. And what happens to you after? Striking a citizen’s a terrorism charge for Numbers,” Kamoshida grinned, bright and perfect, and it was almost enough for Ryuji to swing right then, “But you’re not brave enough for something like that, Eleven. Or you’d be out there with the terrorists. Or earning your place with the auxiliaries. But you’re not, because you’re a rat.”

“Unlike you, who just likes to fuck high school girls, right?”

It should’ve been the haymaker of this back and forth. There was a moment of stunned silence where Kamoshida just stared at him. By the look on his face, he wasn’t sure if Ryuji had actually said that. Ryuji stared him down, determined not to break - even when the teacher started laughing. It was hard to keep the confusion from his own face then.

He clapped Ryuji on the shoulder, laughter dying down, “You… you’re just like him, aren’t you?” Just like _who_? Had the man just cracked? “Or like him if he were too dumb to _ever_ think things through.” He smiled - too brightly, Ryuji thought, “But _you’re_ not a student - just a speck of dirt no one cares about.

“So I can do _this_.”

And then he slammed his forehead into Ryuji’s nose. There was a shriek, which was either Suzui or Ryuji himself. The pain was instant and explosive, dulling only for a moment as, dazed, Ryuji stumbled back. He fell on his ass, staring wide eyed up at Kamoshida. The giant shrugged, “As far as anyone cares, didn’t even happen.”

Blood gushing from his face, Ryuji still tried to pull himself back up, “Motherfu-”

He was cut off by Kamoshida’s foot on his chest, pushing him back to the floor, “Just stay down. This sort of thing is beneath me.” It didn’t _look_ like it. It looked, by his wild eyes and barely hidden grin, like this was the sort of release he’d been waiting for. 

Ryuji grimaced, “Gonna kick your-”

Kamoshida whistled, pressing his weight down on him. Ryuji let out a gasp as pain shot through his chest, “Good thing I stopped you there: you almost just threatened to assault a Britannian citizen. That’s _another_ terrorism charge.” He grinned Suzui’s way, “You picked up a real radical here, didn’t you Shiho- _chan_?”

From Ryuji’s angle, he could just barely see Suzui. She had shrunken into herself, pressed against the wall as if she were trying to escape through it. Her voice came out so small - this _couldn’t_ be the same girl he’d worked with today, “Please don’t. Not again.”

Again. This sort of shit had happened before. Someone else had been in this position, and Kamoshida had come through it with impunity. 

But it could still be different now! If Ryuji could just tough it out, he could still get the win. They didn't _have_ to just be victims. Before Ryuji could formulate exactly how, Kamoshida leaned on him again, and all he could focus on was the pain. To no avail, he clawed against the foot on his chest. Kamoshida just chuckled, “What’s the matter? Weren’t you going to teach me a lesson?” He sneered, “Elevens always talk so big until you knock them down.”

Ryuji growled through gritted teeth to keep blood out of his mouth, “You’re Japanese too, idiot.”

“Wrong,” Kamoshida spat. Ryuji let in a deep, surprised breath as the weight on his chest vanished - but braced himself as Kamoshida’s foot hovered above him, testing for a new spot, “I gave Britannia three years of service, and have been rewarded for it. I _earned_ my place among them. Guys like you?” His lip quirked, “Which is it? Too afraid to go through with it? Or just too weak?” Ryuji held his breath, got ready. Sure enough, Kamoshida’s foot came back down, with another crack on his chest, “Either way, here you are. _Beneath me_.”

“ _Stop_!” Suzui cried out. She bowed, low and subservient. Where the world thought they belonged, “Kamoshida- _sama_ , please. You’ve made your point. Just… don’t hurt him any more.”

Kamoshida considered it. And at first Ryuji figured that that meant he was in for some more. But then he said, “Stay down, Eleven. Or I’ll _put_ you back down.”

And he backed off. And against anything resembling wisdom, Ryuji’s first thought was to get back on his feet and get even. His body, though, had other ideas: sharp pains in his chest where ribs may have cracked. This delirious, dazed feeling in his face - it faded in and out of throbbing and just feeling like it _should_ hurt. Definitely a broken nose.

And if he were half a man, he’d ignore that and put Kamoshida in the fucking _ground_.

But as he’d been so gently reminded, Ryuji was _not_ half a man. He was an Eleven. Hardly even a human being.

Kamoshida smiled, satisfied with a job well done, and returned to Suzui. He whispered something to her, and Ryuji couldn’t hear what. But by the way she stiffened, and by her resigned nod, he could guess. 

‘ _Come with me or he gets worse._ ’

‘ _Come with me or_ you _get worse._ ’

After that, Kamoshida just left. No parting threat, no last minute kicking while Ryuji was down. He didn’t need to: he’d won.

It wasn’t until he was gone that Ryuji started to pull himself to his feet. He settled for sitting up - the world was still spinning a little from the initial hit. He looked at Suzui for a moment, then back at the floor. He wiped the blood from his face with his thumb, wincing as fresh pain jolted in his nose.

He felt Suzui kneel beside him. She was looking at the floor too, looking for something she could say to him. And they both knew there wasn’t anything that she needed to. Ryuji had tried to protect her and failed. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

She opened her mouth, and Ryuji begged the universe to spare his dignity by not letting her apologize for this. He finally got a wish granted, “Go find one of the other teams. Tell them you had a run in with Kamoshida. They’ll understand.”

“I’m not just gonna let-”

“Yes you are,” Suzui said. There was the slightest trace of will left in her voice. She shouldn’t have been wasting it on him, “If you follow me, he’ll kill you.” Ryuji almost laughed - that seemed so ridiculous until it didn’t anymore. Because from where he was right now, it honestly _did_ seem like Kamoshida could get away with that. Suzui furrowed her brow, balled her fists, “I’m _not_ going to have that on my conscience.”

What about _his_ conscience? Ryuji was supposed to just lay back and _let_ this happen? Just pretend he didn’t see anything, that nothing was wrong?

 _Yes_.

Suzui left without saying anything else, and Ryuji did his best to not think of her as going to the gallows. He felt heavier when the door clicked shut behind her. Laying back again, he stared at the fluorescents in the ceiling. 

He was obviously going to go after her. It was what a good person would do.

And yet there he was, staggering to his feet, gathering what supplies he could with one hand. He pinched the bridge of his nose with the other, tensing at the initial stab of pain, but enduring it because he couldn’t just bleed everywhere.

The hallways were mercifully empty as he moved through them. They were supposed to have been the only team working in this building, so Ryuji looked for an exit. The world was a blur around him: even if people did see him, he couldn’t bring himself to care. So he was battered and beaten. Big deal.

The sunlight outside was so harsh now. It felt so fake, like someone was shining it to blind everyone to what was _really_ going on here at Ashford. Ryuji had been fooled before, but now that he’d seen, he couldn’t go back.

Did the whole cleaning team know that this was what they were getting into? Did Mishima know when he recommended Ryuji for the job? And if they did, why didn’t they all look as broken as Ryuji felt?

Did they just accept that this was how the world worked?

_How?_

Ryuji was so sunken into his thoughts and so delirious with pain that he plowed right into someone. Their uniform was black: a student, and a guy. Great. More.

He was such a mess by now that he forgot to go back to English, “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to fucking… wait, no. I’m sorry.”

Before he could correct himself, the student responded in Japanese, “No worries-” but then he must’ve seen him and realized that there were _several_ worries, “Holy shit, are you alright?”

It startled him out of his head and back into the world. The student was lean - a little weedy, really. He slouched - not as much as Ryuji, but noticeably. And he had black curly hair, almond eyes behind glasses.

Ryuji vaguely remembered hearing something about some Eleven juvie kid going to Ashford. He never expected to actually run into him.

And the first thing he felt was jealousy. If this guy could do it, why not Ryuji?

_Because you’re nothing._

The other Eleven didn’t say that. He reached out, concerned but also confused, put a hand on Ryuji’s shoulder to steady him, “God, what happened to-”

“I’m fine,” Ryuji snarled.

A girl’s voice, “No, you’re obviously not. Don’t be a tough guy, just let us help. We’re not even-” she trailed off.

And he looked at her, and his heart stopped. It wasn’t because she was stupid beautiful, though on another, better day, that might’ve done it. Perfect skin, silky blonde hair, body like a supermodel: she’d basically rolled off a Britannian propaganda poster. But that wasn’t why Ryuji couldn’t stop staring.

It was because even seven years since their afternoons by the riverbed, she was still so obviously _Ann_.

Ann was _here_. Ann was seeing him at his lowest point. Ann was a student at the school where he was failing to be a frigging janitor; failing to be a _person_.  
  
And worse, in their time apart he’d sunken so far that she didn’t even recognize him. To her, he was just staring at a stranger. Shifting slightly, she asked, “What…?”

He bolted. Just turned tail and ran in the other direction.

Why? _Why_ did she have to see him here, in this ridiculous _servant’s_ costume. Why did she have to _be_ here, the day that all his macho bullshit was revealed for what it was: bullshit. How was he supposed to face one of his happiest memories, before or after conquest, like _this?_ How could he admit that he’d grown up into a failure, unable to protect even one person?

Obviously he couldn’t, so he ran.

There was no one around, wherever he’d stopped. Later, he was going to regret fleeing like a coward. It would be even harder to regroup with the other cleaners now.

Whatever came later, _now_ no one was around and that was good enough. He screamed impotently and punched a wall. He immediately regretted it: more pain jolted up his arm to join all his other hurts. Just like every time he'd tried to do something today, all he managed was to make it worse. Every move was wrong. He was paralyzed.

Ryuji folded in on himself and dissolved into tears. They stained his uniform pants, though blood was already doing a good job of that. He hoped no one else wandered by and saw as sobs wracked his body. 

He’d wondered how bad one day of this job could be. Oh, only enough to ruin his future, present, and even past.

Ryuji couldn’t even imagine _what_ he’d thought would be different. Had he thought that Tokyo would somehow magically become _his_ city again just because he was there? That things could be better?

He had to pull himself together. 

And then he had to do it all again tomorrow.

And again.

And again.

And _again_.

Ryuji didn’t know if he had the strength.


	6. Kindling

**August 6, 2017 A.T.B. - Ann**

It had been a little weird to go back to ordinary life after the Metaverse. At the very least, there should’ve been more of a grace period. After a day of tension and terror and magic and adventure, was Ann really expected to settle down into a trigonometry worksheet _that night_? Her head had been swimming enough as it was without throwing numbers in there. Clearly, the Metaverse had sucked the energy out of her - Akira had been flagging too once they got back. Her doodles of a cat and a top-hatted demon looked nicer on the page than any equation would have anyway.

Homework could go on hold: there was _another world_. How was Ann supposed to focus on anything else?

So she hadn’t: she’d called it an early night, settling into an evening of staring at the ceiling. Her body insisted it was tired, but her mind raced with the next day’s possibilities. She and Akira were going to plunder an enigmatic palace and help Morgana get his body back. It sounded like a fairy tale.

And if she focused on that, then she wouldn’t have to think about _whose_ palace it was.

How deep into _his_ mind, into _his_ fantasies did she want to go?

He’d loomed over her twice that day, once in the real world, once in the Metaverse. Both times she’d been powerless to stop him.

“You’d better not be there when I close my eyes,” Ann muttered. Or if he had to be, she hoped he was small enough to crush under her heel. See how _he_ liked it.

The point was moot: when she did drift off, Ann’s sleep was dreamless.

The same could not be said for classes that day. They were a haze of droning, as they tended to be when something more interesting peaked over the horizon. Ann knew that she was going to have to borrow notes later. If she concentrated her hardest, she could stay in the classroom for maybe a sentence or two. But she’d gotten pretty good at tuning out the world around her.

It would be useful today: her latest shoot had apparently hit print. And wouldn’t you know it, some of the boys in chem had gotten their hands on a copy, and huddled around it to drool like hungry dogs.

The shots themselves were tasteful enough: she was showing off the last gasps of the summer lineup. So it was _appropriate_ to wear a bikini, because that was literally what they were selling. The closest that they came to being something sexual was, like, ‘Hey, look at this hot girl! Wear our brand and you can be hot too!’

Ann remembered a lot of power stances and a lot of victory signs. At the time, she’d _felt_ powerful: there’d been this impossible to place vibe in the air: a sort of, ’look out world, I know what I want and I’m not afraid to go after it!’ The cameraman had told her she was fierce, and it was a line, but she believed it.

And there was this _tiny_ part of her that was secretly pleased that Britannians were showing off a half-Japanese European as some kind of ideal of beauty. There’d been this almost subversive feeling to it.

But in the classroom, in front of her peers, being ogled like staring could make her clothes fall off, she didn’t feel fierce or subversive: just uncomfortable. With as much dignity as she could, Ann marched past her classmates and to her seat. She pretended she didn’t notice them hastily hiding the magazine as she passed, or someone whispering, “But like, how much do you think is photoshop?”

“None, I hope,” someone else shot back, “C’mon man, lemme _dream_.”

Ann rolled her eyes and took a seat. If she just ignored them and thought about something else, it’d all be fine. She opened up her notebook, like she was honestly going to be able to focus today. From behind her, there was a disgusted sound, and a high pitched voice speaking low enough to pretend she hadn’t meant to be heard, “Look at her, acting like she’s so _above_ it.”

“Well yeah, that’s what a tease _does_.”

‘Tease’ was one of the nicer things she’d been called. It could bounce right off without leaving a mark. This was a recurring cycle. Do a shoot, get objectified, get resented for being objectified. Rinse, repeat. Ann could mostly ignore it by now.

And it was like knowing that, they all tried to dig in a little deeper.

“I heard that she’s done, like, full frontal stuff.”

“I mean, _yeah_ , didn’t you see what she was ‘wearing?’”

“No, but like… actual smutty shots!”

“What? No way!”

“I swear! That’s what I heard!”

Ann’s grip on her pencil tightened, and she tried to block everything out. They were getting worse.

“Well _I_ hear Kamoshida- _sensei_ ’s the guy to ask about _that_.” 

The pencil snapped. Ann didn’t. Just barely.

The girls behind her had erupted into giggles. A part of Ann wanted to whirl around and just demand what about that was supposed to be funny. Having seen what Kamoshida thought of the rumors surrounding them, she couldn’t imagine what it might be.

Whether or not any of them really _believed_ what they were saying about Ann, it was still out there in the universe.

For most people, the only value the rumors had seemed to be ‘wouldn’t it be funny if she was into a middle-aged former Eleven?’ Hilarious.

But then there were the people who put actual stock in them. Those people must’ve been why Kamoshida was starting to get brave.

And the trouble was, there really wasn’t that much that Ann could do about that. She’d tried before to set the record straight - it had done about as much good as any denial of that sort. If anything, it had only fanned the flames for anyone who thought (she hoped) that the worst harm they were doing was dragging her name through the mud.

So all she could do was ignore them, and today she had the perfect distraction. Metaverse. Morgana. Arsène. Palace. If she could just get through today, there was something waiting at the end that none of her classmates could fathom. No one could touch her: her mind was somewhere else. There was more important stuff to think about today than gossip.

And that was all well and good: Ann could even almost believe she wasn’t bothered.

But she’d still need to get through _his_ class.

Japanese was always an exercise in torture. Ann almost skipped, but her seat was next to Shirley, and she would have had questions that Ann didn’t know how to answer. The period before class felt impossibly long: Ann didn’t think she’d dreaded Kamoshida’s entrance this much when she’d actually been in a cell.

When he finally arrived, his voice was booming and cheerful - among the lesser of his terrible qualities, he was a morning person, “ _Ohayo gozaimasu_ , class!”

They responded in kind, and as Kamoshida prepped for the lesson, he offered a few individual greetings to people in the front row. And Ann, even though she was closer to the back. His smile was so smug, “Ann- _chan_. You’re looking lovely today.”

She hoped he caught fire from her glare. Instead, all she got was an amused glint in his eyes. Like his attempt yesterday was a funny secret the two of them shared. 

And it was. Kamoshida could just say things like that, and nobody would call them into question. The strangest part was, Ann didn’t think a teacher who’d been Britannian from birth could have gotten away with it. _They_ were supposed to know better. Most of Ann’s classmates saw Kamoshida as too much of a lovable goof in class to bat an eye when he commented on the girls’ looks.

‘He’s harmless,’ they’d say, or, ‘Oh, he’s just being friendly.’

A select few might’ve gone far enough to say, ‘He was born an Eleven: you know how those people are.’

People would do whatever it took to not see.

Kamoshida turned his attention away from her and onto the lesson. Now that she’d rather be daydreaming, Ann could only focus on him. His teaching style was showy and animated - it was a literal performance for him. He played the role of the passionate teacher, heaping praise on his students when they did well.

The act was so obviously an act when you were in on it. It _couldn’t_ be that she was the only one not fooled. Everyone else had to know, or at least suspect that he was hiding something.

As far as Ann could tell, her fellow students were more concerned with their own lives. Even Shirley - who honestly should’ve been able to just feel Ann’s discomfort sitting next to her - was too busy glaring daggers at Lelouch’s empty seat in front of them. 

Even if they knew there was something to see, that didn’t mean they’d see the right thing. As she’d seen earlier, the rumor that Euro-trash Ann Takamäki had a thing going on with Mr. Kamoshida was still going strong. That was as close as anyone at this school got to truth. Everything else was varying degrees of blindness.

Kamoshida must’ve known. He swaggered and pranced, secure in the identity he’d crafted for himself. All you had to do was _look_ and you’d see past it. But if no one did, he was invincible.

Whenever he glanced her way, Ann tried to break through that. She tried to project, ‘ _I see you. I know what you are._ ’  
  
All she got back was a bemused, ‘ _And?_ ’

And so she’d find something in the Metaverse. In a world formed by Kamoshida’s distorted desires, there had to be _something_ that would implicate him.  
  
His class was only an hour. A skin crawling hour. But god did it feel like longer. And it gave her mind something else to dwell on in her other classes - she kept vacillating from images of impending triumph in another world to present powerlessness in this one.

The trouble was, if Ann got lost in her head too long, someone was bound to try to pull her out of it, “Hello? Earth to Ann?”  
  
Shirley waved a hand in front of Ann’s face, and she blinked. Their last class must’ve let out: it was practically empty now. Ann had been too busy with cells and palaces and nuns with her face to notice.  
  
“You’ve been spacey all day,” Shirley noted. Ann thought she’d hidden it better, “Everything alright?”  
  
‘ _I’m just freaking out because I’m going to a magical other world ruled by a perverted egomaniac. I don’t_ really _have a way to defend myself when I do, but hey, how’s that different from the day to day, right?_ ’  
  
Ann smiled, and hoped it didn’t look exhausted, “Yeah.”   
  
She had no idea why she’d never told Shirley the truth about Kamoshida. There had been a few times she almost had, but lost her nerve at the last second.  
  
Until yesterday, that had been because at least he hadn’t _done_ anything. Things he _said_ just sat the wrong way. It had started with compliments that were a little too suggestive, moved on to a more explicit proposition. But until now, never anything so explicit that he couldn’t disown it as needed.  
  
_Now_ he’d forced her up against a wall and tried to blackmail her, and Ann _still_ couldn’t bring herself to tell the girl that was supposed to be her best friend about it.  
  
She was sure that Shirley would believe her, if she did. But what if she didn’t? _Milly_ gave the rumors enough credit to tease her about them, and Milly saw so, _so_ much more than Shirley. What if it turned out that however close she and Shirley were, Ann was actually alone against Kamoshida?  
  
If she was, she didn’t want to know.  
  
In any event, her response didn’t seem to satisfy Shirley, but she settled for giving her a skeptical look. When Ann failed to come forward with anything else, she added, “Milly got back to me: the council’s not meeting today.”  
  
That was an easy hook to latch onto. Ann rolled her eyes, throwing her bag over her shoulder, “Fucking Lelouch.”  
  
“Seriously,” Shirley spat, “I swear, if he does it again, I’ll offer to just take the VP position. Since he _clearly_ doesn’t want it.”

Ann laughed. Maybe she and her friend weren’t so different after all: here they were both confronting their boy troubles, “You’d be good at that.”  
  
Sighing, Shirley said, “I’d never have the time.”   
  
Ann bit her tongue, resisting the obvious quip. It still slipped out of her, “And we wouldn’t want to step on our darling Lulu’s toes like that.” Shirley made a face at her, and Ann couldn’t help but giggle. Maybe it was a _little_ mean to use her as a distraction like that.  
  
But if Shirley knew what she was distracting Ann _from_ , she’d be happy to help. She’d still grumble, though, “ _Ann_. You’re… I don’t know if they even made a word for you.”  
  
“‘Right?’” she suggested.  
  
“That’s _definitely_ not it.” Shirley crossed her arms, her brow furrowing in thought. She gestured for the two of them to head out, and Ann followed. After a moment, she said, “Even if I _did_ like Lulu like that, I’d _still_ want him to take his position more seriously.”  
  
Ann made a noise that she hoped sounded more understanding than skeptical, glancing out a window. Another gorgeous day - Ashford had to have some kind of weather control device hidden somewhere. She supposed she should’ve been happy that the biggest troubles in Shirley’s life all had to do with the boy she was into. But honestly, it was increasingly getting hard to see what she saw in him, “You know how I know you _do_ like him, Shirley?” Without waiting for a guess, she answered, “Because you let him get away with being a lazy flake, because you think there’s more to him than that. There’s _really_ not.” Shirley sputtered, so she added, “Oh, and the staring. I sit next to you in like every class, I _see_ you looking at him.”

“I do not!” Poor Shirley. She _glowed_ when she blushed. She regained enough composure (or at least something similar to it) to add, “But that’s not fair at all and you know it. Lulu acts like he doesn’t care about… well, anything.” Ann snorted, “But! He was the first one to go to bat to get Akira on the student council!”

“Then _Akira_ should date Lelouch.”

“You know what I mean!!! Lulu _cares_ about people. He wants to help, but not be _seen_ helping.”

Ann nodded along, “Ah yes, that must be where he is right now: trying to win some extra money to help the budget, because he cares so much.”

“He…” Shirley groaned, conceding, “He’s _also_ flaky. He can be both things.”

That was about as far as that needed to be pushed: whatever Ann said, the heart would want what it wanted. Shirley could still do better, though, “Fair enough.”

It wasn’t like Ann could dissuade her from the boy until Shirley admitted she was interested in him. And she had her doubts about after.

For now, Shirley was the first to extend the olive branch, “Do you maybe want to head out into town, since we have some free time? I hear that new crepe shop is pretty good.”

Ann had heard the same things. And it broke her heart a little to not have the opportunity to find out. But as much as she appreciated the diversion, there was still stuff to do today, “Sorry, I actually can’t. I’m meeting up with Akira later…” she trailed off rather than ad lib something non-magical for them to be doing. It was hard enough to be convincing with strangers: she’d never fool her friends. She tried to ignore the shock on Shirley’s face as she tried to fill in the blanks.

Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen much of him today. She shot a quick text, ‘Hey, Milly let you know we’re not doing a meeting today, right?’

The reply was more or less instant, ’Yeah. Head out after Riegel?’

She typed a quick affirmative, and Shirley said, “You’ve been, uh, meeting up with Akira a lot.” There was the start of something singsong in her voice.

It had to be stopped. Ann shrugged off her implication, “Uh, yeah, because it’s like his third day and he doesn’t know his way around yet.” She resisted the urge to add, ‘Because your wonderful, caring Lulu keeps blowing him off.’ That would only derail things.

“Oh yes, gotta make sure you show him _everything.”_

Just because it was _Shirley,_ and she was such an innocent, that took a moment to land. When it did, Ann gasped, “ _Shirley_!”

She beamed, so proud of herself, “Wow, this is fun from this side of it!” And that was a fair point, but _still._

Ann crossed her arm, pouted dramatically. She put some high-pitched whine into her voice, “Shirley! _It’s not like that_!” Shirley was a good sport: she snorted instead of getting indignant. Her laughter broke Ann, and soon they were giggling like idiots in the middle of the hallway.

Grinning now from ear to ear, Shirley asked, “But seriously. Is it…?”

“Shirley. He’s been here for _three days_. No, it’s not.”

“Gotcha,” Shirley gave her a sheepish look, “Then do you mind if I tag along?”

Oh, shoot. Ann hoped her horror didn’t show on her face.

She tried to imagine Shirley in the Metaverse, standing up to the lurching guards. The image just wouldn’t come to mind. Not to mention what she’d learn in there.

Thinking of that made Ann wonder if she was trying to protect her friend from whatever was waiting in the other world, or just keep her secrets from her a little longer.

The trouble was finding an excuse that would satisfy her. If she _was_ just showing Akira around, yeah it’d make total sense for Shirley to go with them because she just knew the school better.

“Shirley…” she paused, not least because she didn’t know what was going to come out of her mouth next, “Akira and I aren’t _actually_ touring the school.”

Her brow furrowed. ‘Why did my friend just tell a pointless lie?’ “Oh? Then what’re you doing…?”

What had Akira said before? He’d lied so effortlessly to the soliders, and _they’d_ had guns. All Shirley had was the capacity to think less of her.

She couldn’t play it off as a class project like he did. Shirley was practically a living day planner, she’d _know_ there wasn’t anything for school that merited going into the Settlement.

Ann was taking too long. Shirley was getting suspicious - she must’ve been! Think fast, talk faster, “I asked Akira to show me Shinjuku.”

Shirley’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, “You _what_!?”

“Yeah!” Ann twisted a pigtail around a finger, like it was the story she was spinning up. She tried for something solemn - it felt appropriate, “I’ve heard stories about how the Japanese live,” _in the ghettoes you set up for them_. “I wanted to see for myself. I figured that Akira would be a good guide.”

“ _Ann_. That’s… no. That’s such a…” she smacked her forehead, “Ann, Shinjuku _isn’t safe_ for Britannians.” 

“Well then it’s a good thing I’m not Britannian,” Ann pointed out.

“They’re not gonna care! It’s not the military, Ann. They’re not gonna just check your ID and let you go. Elevens don’t play by our rules,” she grimaced, anticipating Ann’s disgust at that, “I’m sorry, but they _don’t_.”

Oh yeah, Britannia’s just and fair rules.

‘You have what I want, but I’m stronger so I’ll just take it.’

Ann grit her teeth and tried to explain, “That’s _why_ I’m going with Akira. If they see him with me, they should know I’m fine.” And, in her experience, other Japanese people were better at noticing that she was one of them.

Shirley shook her head, and something about it that made Ann’s blood start to boil. Like she just didn’t get it. Like _she_ was the one who was blind to how the world worked, “And what if he’s not enough for them, Ann?”

“Then I guess I’ll have the brave soldiers of Britannia to protect me,” Ann said, more venom in her voice than she’d wanted. She had officially lost control of the lie. It got too close to something real, and now it had spiraled into an argument. 

And infuriatingly, it had become the one argument Shirley was _completely_ unreasonable about. “Oh my god,” she muttered in completely unearned exasperated tones. At least she didn’t roll her eyes, “Ann, don’t make this a _political_ thing, it’s not. It’s just… it’s a bad idea. Trust me.”

Conversations like this reminded Ann why she couldn’t. 

She told herself that the trip into Shinjuku wasn’t real and so she didn’t need to get angry about it. It didn’t really help, no matter how much she tried to sound pleasant, “Trust me, Shirley. I’m a big girl. I can take care of _myself_.”

“Yeah, like, in the Settlement,” because in Shirley’s world, there was no crime in the Britannian part of Tokyo, nor anyone dangerous. She seemed as if she was going to say more, but was cut off by her phone suddenly pinging. Holding up a finger, Shirley read through the text. Ann knew she should’ve been touched by how worried her grimace was when she looked back at her - it should’ve been nice to know someone was so concerned for her safety. But she couldn’t make herself feel that. Apologetically, Shirley said, “So apparently Lulu and Rivalz just got back. Milly’s gonna let them have it and she wants me to help.”

“Fine. Go help.” 

Clearly, she had to dull that blade: right now it cut enough to make Shirley wince, “Just… _please_ don’t do anything crazy until I get back?”

It was so apologetic and so genuinely concerned that it made Ann wish she hadn’t snapped. But then that kinda pissed her off: why should _she_ feel bad? She hadn’t done anything wrong. The whole argument was fake anyway.

Still, there were concessions to be made, “I’ll text you if we head out?”

Shirley took what she could get, “Definitely. And then again when you get there, and then one more time when you’re leaving.”

So serious. It brought a begrudging smile to Ann’s face. She mimed a salute, “Yes, my lord.”

There was a beat. Ann could see Shirley wanting to leave, but not being sure she should, “And just promise me you’ll be safe?”

“I’ll be _fine_ , Shirley,” she said, hoping it was true, “Slap Lulu for me.”

She smiled, nodded. It was just like everything was okay between them now - and it _almost_ was.

‘ _Elevens don’t play by our rules_.’ Our _civilized_ rules.

It was easy to think that if she ever told Shirley, nothing would change. But sometimes she’d say something like that, and it felt like _everything_ would.

But there wasn’t time to dwell on that now. She shot Akira another quick text, ‘Hey, fyi, I told Shirley we’re going to the ghetto.’

It didn’t take him long to start typing back, ‘How’d that go?’

She had half a mind to tell him _exactly_ how it had gone. But she’d regret that when she was less annoyed, ‘I mean, she’s worried.’

‘Tell her I’ll take care of you.’

‘I’m just gonna say we decided not to go.’ And then Shirley would get to be right, which she’d be excited about. Everybody won.

‘Gotcha.’ 

‘When do you think your program stuff’ll be done?’

‘Just got off the phone with Riegel before you texted. We’re not meeting today either.’ That was surprising: from what little he’d shared, his parole officer seemed just too rigid for a sudden day off. After a moment, Akira added, ‘Where are you? I was heading for the gym.’

Would he even know where to go if she told him where she was? ‘Stay put and I’ll find you?’

‘Cool.’

She headed out, only missing Shirley a little. There was something about having her around that turned them both into ‘those two girls on the student council.’ Boys were less likely to eyeball her, girls less likely to judge. Or at least it just felt that way: maybe having someone there at your side just made that feel like it mattered less.

Ashford’s lawns were absurdly well manicured, which meant that there tended to be that fresh cut grass smell in the air. It was particularly strong today, and the sound of a running lawn mower indicated that the custodial staff was nearby. Maybe Ann would introduce Akira and Shiho, show both of them that there was someone else in their corner.

There were a few benches that lined the path to the gym, and Akira was waiting for her on one of them. He had his legs crossed, thumbing through something for lit. He’d picked Mérimée over Twain for their latest assignment, which struck Ann as perhaps overly ambitious. If he was actually focused on it, she would’ve been amazed. He certainly snapped it shut easily enough when he saw her coming, stretching as he got to his feet, “The ghetto, huh?”

Ann tried to shrug her embarrassment off. It really hadn’t been the best she could’ve come up with, “What can I say, I panicked.” Looking around, she asked, “So are we just going in, or…?”

He glanced back at the gym, some nerves showing. She couldn’t imagine why: _she_ was excited to get going, and _he_ was actually powerful in the Metaverse, “I was thinking maybe try from somewhere else? We ended up right in the dungeon before. It’ll just be a little ridiculous if I end up in _another_ cell.”

“Yeah,” Ann agreed, “Maybe we leave campus? That’s where we landed when we left last time.” A beat, then she added, “Oh, but the guards…”

“They’re gonna be on high alert today, too,” he said, certain but nonchalant. When she raised an eyebrow, he explained, “There was an attack this morning in the Osaka Settlement. It’s got people spooked.”

“Oh,” Ann said a little dumbly. Somehow, news of that hadn’t gotten to her. She recovered, “Isn’t that where…?”

Akira nodded, “My parents checked in after the news broke. They’re fine.” He gave a sort of half-smile, “It’s kinda hilarious: most of our textlog is basically, ‘hey, still alive.’” It didn’t sound hilarious.

She murmured, “I can’t even imagine.”

“You get used to it,” he said. Ann could imagine that even less. She was starting to notice that about Akira: he always seemed to play down his worries for her benefit. Or maybe just for the world’s. Only he wasn’t good enough at it that she didn’t notice, and she couldn’t imagine the world didn’t either.

Maybe that was why he’d exploded like that in the Metaverse.

Maybe if she bottled more up, she would too.

As if sensing her line of thought, Akira made sure to interrupt it, heading toward the doors in, “Do you think just any edge will do? We’re closer to the North wall than-”

He let out a surprised gasp as a blond boy in a white custodian’s uniform nearly bowled him over. In Japanese, the boy let out a pained, almost desperate, “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to fucking… wait, no. I’m sorry.”

Akira dusted himself off, trying to play it cool, “No worries- holy shit are you alright?”

It was the first good look that Ann got at the boy’s face, and at a glance he was distinctly not alright. His jaw and uniform collar were coated in blood, with more gushing from his face between his fingers.

He’d clearly gotten the worse end of something - by the way he was looking at Akira, he might’ve gotten it from _him._ There was something in his eyes that made Ann think he was sizing up the other boy. It was probably just fight or flight, still active from whatever had happened to him.

Akira reached out gently, “God, what happened to-”

The boy recoiled, growling, “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re obviously not!” Ann cried, stepping between them. This guy didn’t want pity: fine. He’d get tough love instead, “Don’t be a tough guy, just let us help.” Ann moved his hand from his face, wincing as she assessed the damage. She was no doctor, but that was definitely a break, “We’re not even…”

And then she trailed off, because his gaze snapped onto her. He just stared, looking more and more horrified until she had to say something, “What…?”

He fled before she could say anything else. Tearing through the hedgerows, the blond disappeared into the rows of pine trees leading to the arts building before Ann could so much as think to call out to him. Somehow, she doubted he would just stop anyway.

She felt like she should’ve done _something_ , though. There had to be more she was capable of than watching him run away.

That was all Akira was doing too, though. So at least she wasn’t alone in inaction. Did that make it better or worse? His mouth was a thin, unreadable line. Ann found her voice, “What do you think…?” All the ways to end that felt a little obvious.

Akira sighed, gave her a pained smile. So quiet that Ann barely heard him, he said, “I think Britannians kinda suck sometimes.” Understatement of the century. And he’d _still_ have to dial it back before it became something he could legally say.

He looked to where the boy had been, his brow furrowing, “Do you think we have time to find him before we head out? Feels wrong just ducking out without making sure he’s… I mean, as okay as he can be.”

Ann nodded: she’d been thinking the same thing, “Morgana’ll understand.”

Akira made a skeptical noise, heading off the pathway to where the boy had run off. The trees were maintained well enough that there wasn’t much effort to brushing past them, but still thick enough that you couldn’t see the other side. A good place to vanish into, in other words.

There was no sign of the blond or any other cleaners when they emerged from the trees. The only people they saw were some underclassmen who gave them weird looks. Ann asked them if they’d seen anyone, they said no,“The only Eleven we’ve seen today is your friend.” One of them, a mousy girl with short brown hair and glasses who made Ann think of Nina, wouldn’t stop staring in Akira’s direction the whole time. He ignored her, hanging back and picking a twig out of his hair while Ann talked with them.

She followed suit, smiling sweetly, “Thanks anyway.”

Being with Akira didn’t repel onlookers the way company normally did. They were just two tourist attractions rather than one. Ann didn’t look forward to whatever stories the ever-industrious Ashford rumor mill would churn out.

As if that was the biggest worry here! There was a guy who’d been attacked on campus, and nobody even seemed to notice he was there.

“He really should stand out,” Akira commented, reading her mind again. Ann checked her phone: maybe fifteen minutes since they'd started looking.

Something in her said that it was less of a search than the blond deserved. But it wasn’t like he was the only one who needed their help. From everything Ann had seen, if he knew they were going to go take on Kamoshida, he’d probably cheer them on.

“Should we find some of the other cleaning crew and let them know?” she suggested. Akira shoved a hand in his pocket, grimacing a little like it was a defeat, but nodded in agreement.

The rest of Ashford’s custodial staff weren’t much easier to find. Ann knew from Shiho’s explanations that students weren’t really supposed to notice them. They were good enough at it that clearly they all deserved raises. The first they found were a couple of boys in white trimming at spiral topiaries by the central water fountain - and that was only because they’d followed the sound of the mower. Another boy watered the flowers with an overgrown spray bottle mounted on his back.

The scrawnier of the trimmers chittered away as they worked, “So basically he just spends the rest of the play with his thumb up his-” at which point he noticed Ann and switched to English and rigid attention, “My lady! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. How might I be of service?”

At his side, the other cleaners stiffened as well. The three bowed in an almost impressively synchronized movement. Akira raised his eyebrows, and Ann felt herself flush. She replied in Japanese, “Hey, don’t worry about all of that ‘my lady’ stuff.”

That at least got them out of the bows. Scrawny’s eyes widened, “Oh wait a minute, you’re Ann- _chan_!” She blinked: she was, but had no idea how this kid knew. He smiled sheepishly, “Oh, I’m Mishima. Suzui- _san_ introduced us.”

Had she? Ann would have to take his word for it. Shifting slightly, she said, “We wanted to let you know that we ran into someone from one of your other teams. He looked really hurt - he ran off before we could really see if he was alright.” 

“Blond, maybe yea tall,” Akira added, holding his hand (a little ungenerously to Blond’s height, Ann thought), “I don’t know if that narrows it down?”

The cleaners all exchanged looks. The tallest, tannest of them groaned, rubbing at his face, “Damn it, what’s Sakamoto done _now_?”

Sakamoto?

“Had someone break his nose, looked like,” Akira said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure he regrets it now.”

Tall-tan started, setting his jaw in Akira’s direction. Ann cast a worried glance his way, too. He had that kind of impassive face that was an obvious front for something. 

Mishima probably didn’t mean his nervous laugh, “Yeah, uh, probably.” He quickly bowed again, “Uh… thank you for telling us, Ann- _chan_ … uh…?”

“Kurusu,” Akira said, meeting Tall-tan’s gaze. Did he _know_ he didn’t have Arsène to back him up here?

“Kurusu- _san_ ,” Mishima repeated, “We’ll… uh… I’ll keep an eye out for Sakamoto- _kun_.”

That was just a common surname, right? There were probably hundreds of Sakamotos.

“Hey,” the last of the boys, smaller but more muscular than Mishima, with almost purple black hair, crossed his arms, asking, “You uh… you wouldn’t’ve happened to run into him over by the gym, right?”

“Yeah,” Ann said. 

The boy mouthed ‘ _fuck_.’ The others all stiffened too. Tall-tan heaved a put upon sigh and said, “Cool. Thanks for telling us, we’ll make sure he’s okay.”

Some darkly curious part of Ann wanted to ask what was so bad about the gym. Another part _knew_ but wasn’t sure she believed it. Shiho’s stories said that he was worse than most of the Britannians-by-birth. But he couldn’t be _that_ terrifying, could he?

It wouldn’t do any good to worry about that now. Ann thumbed at a nail, smiling awkwardly, “If we find him first, we’ll let you know?”

“Sure,” Purple said with a forced breeziness.

“Hey,” squirming slightly, Mishima asked, “You’re Kurusu from the radio, right?”

“No Mishima, he’s the _other_ Kurusu going to a Brit school.” Purple glanced at Akira, spitting, “Hey, how do I get in on that deal?”

Ann prepared herself for a quick, caustic comeback. Maybe even something that would start a fight. Instead, Akira just stood there, hands finding his pockets. The silence dragged on until finally he sighed, “Get lucky.”

He made it sound like an apology. The two whose names she didn’t know exchanged a ‘worth a shot’ sort of look. Purple clicked his tongue, “Yeah, kinda figured.”

“Sorry,” Akira said flatly.

“It’s whatever,” Tall-tan replied, which wasn’t ‘it’s okay’ or even ‘I accept,’ “Hope your luck holds out.”

“Me too,” Akira said. It looked like he wanted to say something else, but couldn’t think of what.

Mishima seemed to find it, offering, “Stay strong?”

Akira’s lip quirked, “You too.”

Then he left. It looked like a retreat. Ann, so thrown by that whole exchange, murmured a quick goodbye and hurried after him. “What was that about?” 

Akira closed his eyes and sighed heavily through his nose. For a second, Ann thought that that was all she was going to get, but then he added, “I hate guys like that. They hear someone got hurt and the first thing they ask is, ‘well what did they do wrong?’” He sighed again, some of that Metaverse venom finding its way into his voice, “But then _I’m_ the bad guy because I got out.”

Ann winced in understanding. It had never even occurred to her what other Japanese people must’ve thought of Akira’s parole. It felt somehow wrong: with Britannia stacking the odds against them, surely they all were supposed to be on the same team?

Thinking of it in those terms, it was pretty obviously naïve. She said, “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” with the airy tones of an obvious deflection, he said, “Mishima- _san_ seemed alright. How do you know him?”

If he didn’t want to talk about it, fine, “I kinda don’t. He must’ve been working with Shiho yesterday.”

“Shiho?”

“A friend of mine from the cleaning team,” Ann explained. She smiled a little, “You know how every group has that one person who isn’t _officially_ in charge, but is _totally_ in charge?”

“Oh yeah,” Akira said, “That’s Shiho?”

“That’s Shiho.” Thinking of her friend, something clicked into place, “Oh, you know what, I’ll talk to her about that boy.”

“I think they said Sakamoto?”

They sure had. And Ann was going to do her best to keep that name in the box where she kept things she couldn’t do anything about yet, “Yeah. I’ll ask her tomorrow - or today if there’s enough time when we get back.”

“Sounds like a plan. Not much else we can do now.”

Something in the way Akira said that didn’t sit right. Ann looked at him, trying to decide if he was still stewing in the encounter. Hell, he had _a lot_ he could be stewing in. Maybe there was even a part of him that was still afraid of the way he’d been in the Metaverse. Gently, Ann asked, “You’re… okay to go, right? If you’re not feeling it…”

“I’m feeling it,” Akira gave her what he must’ve thought was a reassuring smile, but his eyes were _all_ Arsène. He said, “Trust me, I’d rather go somewhere I _can_ do something.”

Ann didn’t know what to say to that, so she just nodded, “Me too.”

For now, they instead went along the path until they got to the western part of Ashford’s wall. It was so jarring to look at: acres of rustic splendor, and then all of a sudden, there were these twenty foot chrome steel walls. They were supposed to be thick enough to withstand a knightmare frame’s ordinance. Ann didn’t know about that: she’d only seen knightmares for celebrations and the like. But the walls _did_ seem to keep the rest of the Settlement out: they physically manifested the Ashford bubble.

When he thought they were far enough, Akira skimmed through his phone. Ann peaked over his shoulder: the app was indeed still there. That much hadn’t been a dream. ‘Kamoshida: Ashford Academy = Castle.’ Akira gulped, “Well. here goes nothing?”

Ann braced herself, and he tapped the palace. For a moment, it seemed like nothing happened. Then at once she felt light headed: her body wanted to sway where she stood but couldn’t. Sensation was a series of contradictions: she was obviously falling, but also obviously standing still. 

The feeling passed as soon as it had come over her: looking up at the empty black sky, it had worked. Ann felt this elated relief that they’d made it back. It hadn’t been a dream, or some kind of shared vision. The other world, the Metaverse, was real.

Then she stumbled back in surprise, because Ashford’s wall had been vanished, and was replace by a boiling moat. It bubbled and hissed unpleasantly, slowly shifting in color from reds to purples to blues and so on. Just past it, the waves of shadows representing Britannia’s army seemed to sizzle in the heat.

They seemed less endless up close, and also less strictly uniform. They at least breathed out of sync, which on its own made them seem less of a single, faceless creature. Some hunched a little more than others (and certainly none did as much as the guards they’d seen inside the palace). Some muttered slogans (“All hail Britannia” was ever-popular), others stood silent. Ann wondered what that meant.

Kamoshida had to have been through the Britannian military to get his citizenship - Ann couldn’t imagine a lord had given it to him. Maybe he just remembered the sparks of individuality in what looked from the outside like a sea of conformity?

Akira stepped by her side. His uniform had melted away into the trenchcoat and mask he’d worn last time. Seeing it again, Ann had to admit it wasn’t a bad look. He flicked a gloved hand in the direction of the ‘Britannians,’ and Ann thought she saw some fists clench on spears, “Think they’ll report us?”

Before Ann could answer, one of the shadows did for her. It was impossible to tell which one: none of them stepped forward or moved to identify themselves, “King Kamoshida must handle his own affairs. Ours is to ensure that he is a wise and just ruler, as befits the empire. All hail Britannia.”

“‘Wise and just?’” Ann sneered, “Then you’re doing a bang up job. You know he imprisoned us for no reason last time, right?”

Another voice responded, “Thieves and slaves are not worthy of wisdom nor justice. Your quarrel with King Kamoshida is your own. All hail Britannia.”

“So your job is to make sure he’s behaving and you just look away when he’s not?” Ann didn’t know why she was letting herself get drawn into this, but something about the utter nonsense of it all lit a fire under her.

Not that anything she said could get through to them, “We have our orders. All hail Britannia.”

“Ann, let’s go,” Akira said, already starting to follow his own advice, “We’ve got a cat to find.”

A part of Ann wanted to protest, but another knew that it would just be a waste of time to draw out this argument. Physically or mentally, the cognitive soldiers weren’t going to budge.

This time, they’d come into Kamoshida’s palace somewhere in its courtyard. Not wanting to once again break in somewhere they were _completely_ unfamiliar with, they circled back around the castle. It was a little surprising how empty the grounds were: the only even slightly human figures they encountered were half-overgrown stone statues in various flexing poses.

“Where’re all the guards?” Akira muttered, voicing Ann’s concern.

“Seriously. It’s like they _want_ people to break in,” she paused, surveying the castle windows. Most of them were just the little murder holes you’d see on a medieval castle. Occasionally, though, there were larger, arched windows. If you looked closely, they seemed to be chiseled to look like a pair of spread legs. Ann did her best not to look closely.

Until, that is, there was movement in one. Ann followed it, and her breath hitched to see herself again. 

No, it wasn’t _her_. Just Kamoshida’s cognition of her. That should’ve made it less eerie. It didn’t. The cognitive her leaned out the windowsill, gazing dreamily off into the distance. Idly, she twirled a pigtail around and around. It was strange, vaguely mesmerizing. Ann wondered what she was thinking - _if_ she was thinking. If this was how Kamoshida saw her, it couldn’t be more than just a vapid husk, right?

Shivers ran down her spine: the cognition’s gaze had shifted, and now it was looking right at her. It was too far off to make out too many details, but Ann could feel its grin. It pressed a finger to its lips, and with that slunk off from the window, stroking along its frame as it went.

“Ann? You see something?”

It was only then that Ann realized she’d been staring. And that Akira hadn’t noticed the other her this time. She played it cool, shrugging it off as best as she could, “I thought I did - guess I was wrong.”

It didn’t satisfy him, she could tell. At first, it had been such a relief to have someone around who knew that she wasn’t _actually_ fine just because she said she was. And it still was. But Ann almost wished he could pick up on just a _little_ less.

At least he knew not to press it this time.

They finally found Morgana in what Ann thought of as the front part of the courtyard, where they’d escaped before and where the drawbridge was. There was yet another statue of Kamoshida, maybe twice his actual size, in a pose like Atlas holding the world. Only the world in this case was a massive version of his own head. Which Ann supposed was appropriate. On one of the points of that head’s crown, Morgana sat, looking out the swirling haze in the sky.

His shoulders, such as they were, hunched in on themselves, and his ears flattened forlornly against the top of his head. Had he just come out here after them and been waiting the whole time?

Poor thing. Ann called up to him, “Morgana!”

The cat perked instantly, and he shot to his feet, practically bouncing for joy, “Lady Ann! I knew you’d be back for me!”

Akira crossed his arms next to her, “How’re you holding up, cat?” Rude.

Morgana’s eyes narrowed, “I am _not_ a…!!” he shook his head, muttering something about ‘pointless,’ “Hold on, let me get down there before you _completely_ give our position away.”

That just wasn’t fair at all: Ann had been plenty louder in her greeting. She gave Akira an apologetic, if amused look. He winked back: at least they were all on the same page, then.

It only took two quick bounds for Morgana to scale the statue: impressive, given their relative size. He moved in a blur: Ann wasn’t fully convinced that he didn’t just dematerialize in one location and reappear in another. On the ground, he put his hands on his hips, “But seriously. I can’t believe you two just bailed on me like that!”

“We _said_ we’d be back!” Ann protested.

“Oh, Lady Ann,” Morgana shook his head, only a little condescendingly. That seemed to be his main speed, so Ann chose to ignore it, “You’ve led such a charmed life to expect honesty like that: in my line of work, people _lie_ sometimes.”

“And now,” Akira said, deadpan, “You’ve restored his faith in humanity. You’ve helped Mona learn to trust again.”

Morgana let out an irritated yowl, and Ann put in, “C’mon, Akira. Be nice.” At his surprised look, she just shrugged. He’d been in a punchy mood all day. And while that was understandable, he really had to save it for the guards.

Of course, there was the downside that it made the cat smug. Dusting off a shoulder, he said, “Oh, don’t worry about me, Lady Ann. I’m more than ready for anything this big lug can dish out: I’ll serve up twice the fire!”

“No.” Ann chopped between them. Something about giving them power made them such boys about it, “No dishes, no serving, no fire. We’re on the _same team_.” She channeled her inner Milly, pointed at the sky as if to show where her orders were coming from, “Both of you shake hands and call a truce.”

There was a beat, where both of them looked away, embarrassed. And they _should_ have been embarrassed, they were acting like children! But lo and behold, Akira stooped down to Morgana’s level and held out a hand. Another beat, and Morgana took it. They pumped three times, nodded solemnly at each other.

“Same team?” the boy asked.

“Same team,” the cat agreed.

It was such a strange little victory.

With that settled, Ann looked back to the castle. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be anyone looking back to distract her this time. Seeing it from the outside, it looked just a little impossible, with seemingly endless towers and parapets. And that was just the outer wall: the inner keep rose into the clouds like a great stone skyscraper. It looked like several castles stacked on top of each other, which in turn jutted off into more towers in a headache of architecture. They couldn’t possibly cover it _all_ in a day, right? “So how’re we doing this?”

Morgana stepped up beside her, his face as serious as a cartoon cat could be, “We might want to go below again: if the palace ruler has my body somewhere, it’s probably in one of the cells.” He nodded Akira’s way, “And the help’ll make it easier to not get caught again.”

That made enough sense. Ann made an affirmative noise, “I kinda wanted to check them out again too.”

“I thought we agreed no more cells?” Akira asked, mostly joking by the sound of it. More genuinely, he added, “The soldiers mentioned something about slaves. Mona, you said everything here is something else in the real world, right?”

“Right,” Morgana said, “The whole palace is a representation of how its ruler perceives a part of the world. As such, it’s filled with cognitive versions of the things that fill that part of the world.”

Akira nodded, sighing a little, “Which means there’s people in the Academy who Kamoshida thinks of as slaves.”

Maybe the most gross part was that Ann knew immediately who those people would be. By the look Akira gave her, that was the same conclusion he’d drawn.

“Kamoshida…” Morgana murmured to himself, trying to commit it to memory. He stepped forward, gesturing to the vent Akira and Ann had escaped through last time, “We won’t find anything out here. Shall we?”

“Let’s,” Akira replied. You could _feel_ the anticipation there - honestly, Ann was a little jealous.

Getting back up to the window was an embarrassing challenge. Akira and Morgana handled it fine - maybe something about having a persona enhanced your reflexes or something like that. So there they were, gracefully leaping from handhold to handhold, while Ann was left to squirm and struggle. She wished she’d done more chin-ups than just the ones for phys-ed. They seemed like they could help now.

As it was, there was a lot of unladylike grunting until one of the boys noticed she was behind. Then they’d double back as easily as they’d gone up and pull her up to them. It wasn’t fair at all: Akira might’ve been more noodley armed than she was in the real world. And Morgana was a _cat_. 

Yet she was the one who needed a second to catch her breath when they finally reached the opening. She panted, “Stupid hole in the stupid wall… we couldn’t just go in the front door?”

Morgana rubbed her back, his tones soothing, “There’s a lot more of them than there are of us, Lady Ann. A good phantom thief can’t afford to just barge in the front door.”

Akira added, “Take your time. Gives us a chance to appreciate the view.”

“Do you guys know what’s up with them, by the way?” Morgana asked, and it took Ann a second to realize that he meant the cognitive Britannians, “They don’t seem like they actually work for Kamoshida - they basically ignored me the whole time I was out there.”

“ _King_ Kamoshida must know that he can’t do _everything_ he wants,” Akira said, “He’s still got Britannia’s eyes on him.”

It sure didn’t _feel_ like he did. It felt like he could get away with anything in the real world. What more could he want? Morgana shifted uncomfortably, as if sharing her thought, then asked, “And… uh… who’s Britannia?”

Ann gave him an incredulous look. By the way he shrank away from her, refusing to meet her gaze, it hadn’t been a joke. She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again, “Morgana… you don’t remember _Britannia_?”

“Yeah, I was gonna ask about that last time,” Akira said, fighting a laugh, “It kinda seems like a big thing to just not know about.”

“I… I don’t know!” the cat yelped, “I just… Kamoshida must’ve stolen my memories when he took my body!”

That made as much sense as anything else in the Metaverse. Still, it was such a hard thing to imagine. And Morgana’s indignant reaction left her trying to keep from smiling too, “Well… Britannia isn’t a person, it’s a country.”

“You know what a country is, right?”

“ _Of course I know what a country is_!” Morgana snapped at the same time that Ann gave Akira a warning look. 

Gently, she said, “Okay. Well, Britannia’s a country, and…” try as she might, she couldn’t think of a concise way of explaining it, “… and honestly, it’s a little complicated. We’ll give you a crash course when we’re done here?”

“Assuming we don’t just liberate your memories,” Akira added.

The cat let out a displeased hum, but nodded, “Yeah. That’s probably the better idea. What we need to know is that Britannia’s basically waiting for him to slip up, right?”

“Yeah,” Akira said, with a bitter pant of a laugh, “You’ve got a lot of that to look forward to.”

“Can’t do anything about it if I don’t _know_ about it,” Morgana said, as if it really would be that easy, “I’ll take a problem I can look at and face down over a mystery any day.”

The most surprising thing was how much that took Akira aback. For all his sarcasm and quips, he didn’t have an answer for that kind of earnestness.

Ann hoped Morgana wouldn’t be too disappointed when he found out that a problem you knew about wasn’t always one you could solve.

One thing at a time: once Ann was ready to go, they did. Crawling through the duct again was gross, obviously, but not nearly as physically taxing as the climb. She wasn’t looking forward to going back out this way. Maybe they’d find something closer to the ground.

Morgana led the way, with Akira in front of her. In case there were guards on the other side, he explained. Which he was _definitely_ being cautious about and not looking forward to at all. 

It made sense for their formation, but it still didn’t sit right with Ann. There must’ve been _something_ she could do. Sitting back and watching the boys fight didn’t seem fair, for one thing. 

Not that either of them seemed to mind. It didn’t take long before they encountered some of the palace guards - no sooner had Ann hopped down from the bookcase than one lumbered into the miniature study. It staggered at the sight of them, just managing to call out for backup before sinking into the ground and reemerging as more of the phallic imps they’d faced yesterday.

Morgana sprang into action first: all Ann’s eyes could keep up with was a vaguely cat-shaped streak. He pinballed off the walls an onto the shadows. Occasionally, Zorro would flare into being to deliver the coup de grâce. The line of thought seemed to be that if Morgana kept moving, there was no way he could lose. He was making a good point out there.

Akira presented the counterargument: you could see _everything_ he did, but what could you do about it? Arsène erupted behind him, and the two proceeded to tear through the shadows in their way. The Metaverse _must_ have been heightening Akira’s abilities, or Arsène must have. Because otherwise, the way he handled that knife was just too skillful, even if his focus on whatever was in front of him meant that his persona had to block a hit or two from the side.

The two (four?) of them made a good team. All Ann had to do was stand back and wait.

When the coast was clear, boy and cat looked back at her. They were so proud of themselves. Morgana chirped, “Just stay close, Lady Ann: we’ll make sure they don’t get anywhere _near_ you!”

She smiled, and told herself that what she felt wasn’t envy.

There weren’t a lot of fights on the way back to the dungeon. Morgana used all of Kamoshida’s statues and ornaments as an opportunity to teach them more about how to move stealthily. To Ann’s frustration, Akira picked up on _that_ faster than her too. It had to be something about having a persona. She felt like she was still clomping along while he was already getting quiet enough to sneak up behind one of the shadow guards, jump up on their back, and rip off their mask.

Which of course, he did with relish.

All she could do was keep her eye out - and in the central hall with the massive painting of Kamoshida, that paid off. As the latest batch of shadows dissipated, Ann was the only one who noticed a door opening on the upper level. She signaled to the others, and they took cover behind a pillar near the front gates.

It wasn’t more guards: it was more nuns. They at least didn’t have Ann’s face this time, but that was small comfort. Instead, they had Milly and Shirley’s.

From what Ann could see, their habits seemed a little less skimpy - less form-fitting, at any rate. No matter if the ‘Ann’ technically wore more, she still looked somehow naked. And yes, ‘Milly’s’ skirt came up to above mid-thigh. But still!

She leaned on the bannister - thankfully not noticing anything out of the ordinary below. ‘Shirley’ jumped up next to her, legs swinging. With her facing away from them, Ann could see that her habit had no back.

There was a squeaking, stunned, “Wow…” next to Ann. She glared at Morgana, and he coughed, whispering, “It’s… obviously just a cognition. I’m sure that in the _real_ world they’re not… uh… like that?”

“Shush,” Akira muttered before Ann could. He was looking up a lot - pointedly averting his gaze from the cognitions.

If Ann paid the boys any more mind, her eyes were going to roll right out of her head. So instead, she focused on the replicas of her friends.

‘Milly’ stretched languidly, saying, “Did you hear? Yesterday there were some _intruders_ in the castle.”

‘Shirley’ put her hands to her face in shock, “Oh good golly gosh, that’s _terrifying_! I hope King Kamoshida is okay!”

“He’s too _strong_ and _noble_ for some filthy little thieves to get the better of him!” ‘Milly’ half-laughed, half-chided. She let out a dreamy sigh, “Ann- _chan_ ’s lucky.”

“Yeah…”

Ann’s fist clenched. She knew it wasn’t _really_ her friends saying that, and that it wasn’t even really _her_ they were talking about. So it shouldn’t have still hurt to hear. But it still left her with this impotent desire to just scream at them. Shout what it was _really_ like to be the one in Kamoshida’s sights.

Instead, she must’ve just scoffed. It was still loud enough to get their attention: both of the nuns perked up at the sound. ‘Shirley’ was actually set off balance, teetering on the edge of the railing, arms out. ‘Milly’ let out a very un-Milly gasp, and the cognition fell.

Almost predictably, into the waiting arms of the shadow Kamoshida. He held her bridal style for a few moments. Ann could swear some breeze must’ve caught his cape - it fluttered as he crooned, “Are you alright, Sister Shirley?”

He sounded like a different person: gone was the brutal dictator she and Akira had met in the dungeon. _This_ Kamoshida sounded like a charmer - or at least, what he must’ve thought a charmer sounded like. ‘Shirley’ was completely buying into it. She tensed, her face luminescent, and nodded vigorously. Kamoshida chuckled and set her down. He gave her face a protective stroke and Ann nearly leapt from the shadows right then, “Be more careful next time.”

She bowed at the waist, “I will, King Kamoshida!” and then pranced away to join ‘Milly.’ The two gave a simpering little wave, which Kamoshida returned. Apparently, that dismissed them, and they chittered away as they left the way they’d come.

At which point, Kamoshida regained all his hard edges. A pair of guards tromped up beside him. They must’ve been a higher rank: their armor glowed golden, and each had a splendid red plume on their helmet. Both bowed, and one said, “King Kamoshida, shall we?”

“After those two fucking cockteases? Of course.” Kamoshida ascended the stairway, stopping just in front of the painting of himself. He glared back out at the entrance hall, for a moment Ann was sure they were going to be found out, “Someone has to take responsibility.”

When he said that, the painting suddenly spun on the wall, taking Kamoshida and his guards with it. It was replaced seamlessly by another painting of Kamoshida - now he crossed his arms over his chest, the exaggerated muscles of both simply pulsating. He was laughing at some unseen victory as roses bloomed around his frame.

The team took a moment to process that, then emerged from behind the pillar.

Ann broke the silence first. Shattered it, really, “Of all the delusional _bullshit_!” The others flinched at her outburst, but honestly, she didn’t care if she gave away their position. It’s not like it was something _they_ couldn’t handle. And the fury on her friends’ behalf needed to go _somewhere_. She reared on Morgana, “So what does _that_ mean? Does he just think all the girls at school wanna just jump him??”

Morgana sputtered, and it cooled Ann’s anger a little. But only because it wasn’t the cat’s fault that Kamoshida was a pig. Gently, he said, “It… it might not even be a thing that he thinks is true. More like… like something he wishes were?”

It wasn’t a convincing explanation: even Morgana himself sounded like he had doubts. Akira glared up at the new painting instead of meeting Ann’s gaze, “Kamoshida probably thinks of himself as the kind of guy who could get with any girl he wanted. To him, the only thing that’s in the way is society.”

“Is that why they’re nuns?” Morgana suggested, tapping his foot in thought, “A nun is like, the ideal of purity and chastity. It means that they’re ‘untouchable,’ in a manner of speaking.”

That still didn’t explain why his cognition of _her_ was one. Kamoshida sure didn’t act like _she_ was ‘untouchable.’ And if she was fair game, who else might be? “I don’t like the idea of him looking at them like that,” Ann said flatly, “Especially not if they don’t even know he’s doing it.”

“They’re…” Akira paused, choosing his words carefully. It was almost strange, seeing him revert back to tiptoeing around a point when she’d just seen him so reckless. She wished he’d just spit it out, and he obeyed, “They’re probably a lot safer than you are. Kamoshida would _never_ be able to get away with the kind of stunt he pulled yesterday with one of them. The media alone would flay him alive.”

Ann gritted her teeth, fists shaking at her sides, “It was easier when this was just _my_ problem. The idea of him even _considering_ going after them, and them not even _knowing_ …!”

“Hey,” Akira said. He stepped a little closer, held out a hand. But he hesitated, and withdrew it. Which, honestly, maybe that was better. Ann didn’t know if she wanted even a reassuring touch right now. Instead, he just said, “… it couldn’t have been easier before. Now you’re not alone.” He winked, and Ann could see just a flash of Arsène, “Now you can fight back.”

Not to be outdone, Morgana chimed in, “I don’t know what you’ve gone through with Kamoshida in the real world, Lady Ann. But as long as I’m around, I promise you and your friends will be safe..”

She smiled weakly at them both, tried to be grateful. It _did_ help. It _was_ a relief that others were on her side, that she didn’t have to face Kamoshida alone.

The boys took one last look at her to make sure she was alright. So she made sure she looked like she was. Then Akira led the way toward the dungeon while Morgana followed from behind to make sure they weren’t ambushed. Ann stayed in the middle, safe and protected. For all that having them around helped, it was beginning to feel less and less like power. 

Akira had been wrong about one thing: _she_ still couldn’t fight back.

* * *

They reached the dungeon in short order, and with it the return of the scent of rot and death. Ann did her best to pull herself out of her self-imposed funk: the worst would be if Akira or Morgana noticed and it distracted them. There were more shadow soldiers the lower they went, so the two needed to stay on guard.

Besides. She’d come here looking for proof of the monster Kamoshida kept hidden. She had no right to complain about getting her first scraps of it.

Maybe she’d talk with Milly in private, ask her if she noticed anything wrong with their teacher. Maybe she’d even finally tell someone about her own experiences with him.

It didn’t feel like enough, though. Kamoshida could bury her own claims. And as unfair as that was, it was the reality that Ann had to work with. If other girls had had similar experiences with him, that was a different story, but only _so_ different. Based on what they’d seen in the entrance hall, it didn’t seem like Kamoshida had actually acted on anything he might have been thinking about proper Britannian students.

So as angry as the way he apparently saw her friends had made Ann, it wasn’t enough to do more than add the tiniest bit of credibility to her own story.

All the more reason to focus: if there was more to be found, she’d find it down here.

So far, no luck. All of the cells were teasingly empty, obviously excepting the torture devices. There were also all the mops and brooms and other cleaning tools. Those had been dancing on and off in Ann’s mind for a while now, and as they ran along the waterway, she said, “So those are all supposed to be the janitors, right?”

“Hm?” Akira rounded a corner, Arsène roaring to life for just a moment to clear a path, “How do you figure?”

“Well, Morgana said that they were all supposed to be representative of stuff, right? Maybe Kamoshida doesn’t even see the Eleven cleaning staff as people.”

Morgana whirled to face her, brow furrowed, “You’re telling me this place only has _eleven_ people keeping it clean in the real world?” 

It startled a snort out of Ann. She felt bad about it: the cat’s face fell instantly, “Sorry… an ‘Eleven’ is also a _kind_ of person, Morgana. It… uh…” she considered. The fastest, most accurate way to put it was, “It means Japanese.”

“Then why don’t people just say Japanese?”

He said it with downright childlike innocence - as if there must’ve been some kind of rational explanation, he just didn’t understand what it was. Akira - who knew full well how rational Britannian ideology was - let out a bitter laugh, “Yeah Ann, why don’t people just say Japanese?”

Honestly? Ann would be happy to give Morgana a crash course on what little she could understand about Britannian imperial policy - later. For now, she just smiled sadly, “Honestly? It’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to bore you with it, Morgana.”

Akira breathed air out his nose, muttered something to himself as he inspected another cell. To Ann, it sounded like, “Didn’t _feel_ boring.” Louder, with an attempt at his normal flippancy, he said, “Seven years ago, Britannia invaded Japan and conquered us. Now we’re Area 11, because we don’t get to have a real name anymore.” He shrugged back at them, with a grin that didn’t even come close to his eyes, “There. Easy.”

He didn’t wait for any kind of response: Akira’s coattails swished as he pressed forward. The cat considered, looking up at Ann questioningly, “I… get the feeling maybe we shouldn’t call them that?”

“Yeah,” Ann agreed, only a little sheepish, “No one should.”

For a few seconds, Morgana hummed tunelessly to himself, considering something. When he reached his decision, he said, “Well… I guess not everything I forgot is worth remembering.”

“Totally,” Ann replied.

“Hey…” gesturing for her to lean down, Morgana whispered, “Lady Ann, keep an eye on Frizz.” She looked at him sideways - their rivalry or whatever it was was odd, but this was a little ridiculous. The cat was completely serious, though, “He’s using his persona a lot when we fight - and he’s basically got no control over its power yet. He uses a lot more force of will to summon it than he needs to.” 

Akira was already out of sight, but the whooshing sound of Arsène springing from the ether and the hiss of miasma that followed proved Morgana’s point. 

“It’s like he has a new toy, and he wants to play with it so much he might break it.” Morgana shook his head, “No, not _break_. His persona will still be there. It’ll just… have to recharge, I guess. Either one isn’t ideal on a battlefield, obviously.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling _him_ this?” Ann asked.

He answered her with a question, “Does he _really_ seem like he’s gonna want to hear ‘dial it back?’”

Ann thought of the explosion of power Akira had shown in the cell. She couldn’t even imagine going from helpless to monstrous like that. You’d never want to go back, not even a step. 

Which would mean she wouldn’t be able to do much more than Morgana could. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t try. Ann hoped her nod conveyed as much, “That makes sense. You pick up on a lot more than you let on, don’t you?”

He swelled with pride at what he must’ve taken as a compliment, “He’s a good kid, don’t get me wrong,” the cat said, “With the right teacher, he’ll make almost as magnificent a phantom thief as me one day!”

Ann giggled. Such a shift in the mood - she wondered if it was deliberate, “Why Morgana, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you _liked_ him.”

Before Morgana could respond, Akira doubled back to meet them - which meant it was time to stop talking about him. His eyes were wild with excitement - pure, little boy glee at exploring. Or he was still riding the high from his last bout. Either one felt vaguely like he’d forgotten what they were doing here, “I found a bridge - it looks like it goes somewhere we haven’t been yet!”

There were probably a lot of places they hadn’t been yet. But approaching the bridge, this one did indeed look like somewhere they should check out. It must’ve been something about the way the ground just seemed to give out around it: in the darkness of the tunnels, Ann couldn’t see the bottom of the wide crevasse. The waterway poured over the side, and you couldn’t hear it land.

The bridge itself was rickety and thin, boards held together with rope. It swayed lightly, suggesting a dizzying fall for anyone careless about trying it. 

On the other side there was a massive stone door - maybe twenty feet tall. Kamoshida’s face was carved into it. His grin seemed somehow more manic here, though that might have been the torchlight burning in his eyes. There was the uneasy feeling of the doorway laughing at them: accompanied by another that it would devour anything that passed through that mouth.

It was a bridge to Hell. Ann was sure of it.

Morgana licked a paw, seemingly unaware of how catlike the gesture made him look, holding it up, “No breeze.”

“Well, yeah, we’re underground,” Akira said.

The cat yowled, “Which _means_ someone just used that bridge!”

“What do we think is on the other side?” Ann asked. Mostly, she just wanted to hear some, any alternative to what her imagination could conjure up.

But the boys didn’t offer any reassurance on this. Akira let out a deliberate breath in what was either nerves or anticipation, “Well… whatever it is, he wants to keep it buried and hidden. Even from the rest of the dungeon.”

“We should be careful,” Morgana said. It sounded enough like simple instructions, but Ann thought she heard a reprimand, “We don’t have any idea what’s on the other side.”

“If Kamoshida has something worse than what we already know about him, I’m willing to bet that it’s here.” Ann said it as much to convince herself as the others, “We should check it out.”

The others didn’t need to be told twice: for them, there was only going to be vindication behind that door. If Morgana really did have memories or a human body somewhere in the castle, this might even be where they were stowed. Ann couldn’t shake the feeling that for her, what was waiting for her might be horror.

And that wasn’t fair. If it was going to horrify her, it’d do the same to her companions. But it was different. Or it _felt_ different. Even justifying the thought to herself, she couldn’t quite put her finger on why.

The bridge sagged and creaked under their weight. Ann spoke, mostly to stop herself from psyching herself out, and her voice echoed slightly, “It’s hard to believe something like this is under the castle.”

“You’d never know from the outside,” Akira agreed quietly. That little whimper of an attempt at conversation was all any of them managed: the others must’ve been stuck in their heads about what was behind that door as well.

As they got closer, it became clear that Kamoshida’s mouth was indeed where the part of the door that actually opened was: the rest was just for show. It looked weighty enough that the three of them braced themselves together against one of the handles to try and force it open. It gave pretty easily, though. 

Ann braced herself for fire and brimstone, bile and suffering. Instead, on the other side was a hallway carpeted with red plush. Rose petals danced in the air, some building up on the ground like snow, others dissipating only to be replaced with more from the gilded ceiling. The walls were lined with suits of armor, the same white hulks of the army outside the castle. From the upraised spears of them, a banner flowed in the impossible breeze: ‘Kamoshida’s Training Hall of Love.’

The whole thing looked no less gaudy than anything else in the castle. The room was like something above ground had just been transported below.

Ah, but then there were the screams. Stone had obscured the sound from the outside: the three white wooden doors in the back of the so-called training hall could only muffle it. They came sporadically, desperate cries of pain.

They’d found something. It had unearthed a terrible part of Ann that wondered if she were better off not knowing.

Akira had no such reservations. He only took a moment, then he gave the others a grim nod, “Three doors. We’ll just go down the line?” He didn’t wait for an answer, striding toward the closest of them. Ann and Morgana followed at a more reserved clip. At least he waited for them to take a breath before he pushed the door open.

The lavish veneer of the outer training hall vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Crumbling stone walls returned, leading to what must have been an observation deck lined with iron bars.

There, they were treated to a view of some kind of medieval conveyor belt. It spun wildly, such that the people on it had to sprint just to stay in place. They were boys and girls around Ann’s age - and judging by their uniforms (navy and black for the boys, daisy for the girls), they represented Ashford’s volleyball teams. A canteen hung at the far end of the belt, dangling just out of reach of the leader of the pack.

A single shadow guard oversaw the scene, roaring, “Come on! Aren’t you supposed to be the Britannian master race? You should barely be working up a sweat!” the guard clattered its sword and shield together, “King Kamoshida will be paid for his benevolence in sweat, or no one drinks a drop!” It shouted incessantly: its speech seemed to descend into a word salad of abuse. 

Ann was more thrown by the students, though. The desperation and suffering on their faces was plain to see. It hadn’t even occurred to Ann that she might find Ashford students here. She’d heard here and there that Kamoshida was a strict taskmaster, but that had always seemed periphery.

This, though, made her wonder if she should have paid it more mind. Akira crossed his arms, saying, “It keeps talking about Britannian superiority. He’s basically turned something they’re told to be proud of into a weapon against them.”

“‘Don’t whine and do better, or you’re no true Britannian,’” Ann mused. Morgana shifted between them, clearly wanting to add something but having nothing. So Ann provided, “You know, it also keeps them constantly thinking about… well, race, I guess.”

Akira grimaced, “Yeah. I thought of that too.” He pointed to one of the frontrunners, “That guy’s in my chem class. Today he asked me if I’d learned enough to ‘do another Osaka’ yet.” Ann made a gagging sound, and he shrugged it off, “I’m not saying it’s _necessarily_ related, but…”

“The water’s interesting!” Morgana chimed in, “It’s abuse, but it’s the kind of abuse that you might expect from a gym teacher. He can work them to death and just say that they’re the ones who couldn’t keep up.”

“That’s true - he can do whatever he wants to them as long as he can still say that he’s tough but fair,” Ann clenched a fist, “He’s such a snake.” She fished into her uniform pockets, liberating her phone after a moment, “I’ll take a few pictures, and maybe we touch base with a couple of these guys to see if something like this is real?”

“Maybe _you_ do,” Akira said, a little too sarcastically. He held up his hands when Ann glared at him, “I just don’t think they’re that likely to open up to me about it. _Especially_ if it’s real.”

That rang true enough. And it turned out to be a moot point: no matter how Ann tapped at her camera app, all she ever got was an error message. There went her opportunity to contribute. She scowled, “I sort of know a few of them. I’ll ask.”

There wasn’t much more that they could get from this - in a way, it was almost disappointing. For how deeply hidden it was, it wasn’t going to end any careers if it went public. They resolved to move on. As they left, the guard shouted, “Only the strong survive! Last of you to cross the finish line does another lap - naked!”

The next door led to a similar deck, in similar crumbling disarray. Here, the pained shouts were cacophonous. Ann rushed to the bars to get a better look before she could think better of it. At the bottom of a small incline, several people in the janitors’ uniforms were tied to a volleyball net. Each had a guard behind them, smashing the blunts of their swords into their backs relentlessly. The cleaners grunted and wailed with the pain, but kept on their feet.

“What the hell…” Ann barely breathed.

Morgana stood by her side, recoiling slightly at the sight, “So there _are_ people he’s hurting in the real world. These wouldn’t be…?”

“Elevens,” Akira answered. He was trying to keep his voice steady, “He knows he’ll never get away with using corporal punishment on rich Britannian kids, so he takes it out on the cleaners instead.”

Thinking of it now, she didn’t know what she’d always thought Shiho had meant when she said that Kamoshida treated them the worst of all Ashford’s staff. Somehow, the idea that she might be talking about rampant physical abuse had never occurred to her.

What must Shiho have thought when she told Ann and she did nothing?

But that could change. Shakily, Ann asked, “Isn’t there… isn’t there something we can do for them?”

“Of course there isn’t.” The voice from the other side of the bars was ragged. He’d been sitting by their viewpoint, and he rose now to face them. His golden eyes managed not to have a soul despite how they glowed. His blond hair was spattered with blood, and thick bandages covered his nose but could not disguise the ruin that had been made of it. He shoved his hands into his pockets, “You should all get out while you can.”

“Sakamoto- _san_ , right?” Akira asked. All that he got was a shrug. Gripping a bar, he growled, “Why. Why is he _doing_ this??”

Sakamoto gazed apathetically out at him, “King Kamoshida has his reasons. Sometimes the volleyball team fucks up and he has to punish _someone_. Or someone calls him ‘Eleven’ on the outside and it pisses him off. Or he just has a hard day.” He bowed his head, “We exist to relieve him of that.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Ann shouted. She shook with rage, feeling like she was going to burst at any moment, “You’re _people_ \- he can’t just use you as a fucking stress ball! You can’t let him do this to you!”

“That’s _all_ you can do. Once you’re on his shit list, who are you gonna go to? No one.” Sakamoto stared absently at the ceiling, “Heroes only make it worse.”

“Sakamoto, you can’t really think that!” He was still looking past her. Ann gripped at the bars, wishing she could somehow get through to him, “Saka- _Ryuji_!”

He met her gaze. That didn’t mean there was any recognition or a trace of life in those eyes. Quietly, he said, “It’s not so bad. You get used to it. Just keep your head down and bear it.” 

Ann set her jaw. It was the same _bullshit_ she’d been feeding herself all this time: if you ignored a problem for long enough, it could go away on its own. If you covered your ears, there wasn’t anyone screaming.

“Lady Ann.” Morgana put a comforting hand on her leg, “Whoever ‘Ryuji’ is, that’s not the real him. That’s just a cognition - the way that Kamoshida sees him.”

“But…”

“Who did you _think_ broke his nose?” Akira asked. It was so blunt, Ann almost couldn’t believe he’d said it. She rounded on him, but he was completely unfazed by her fury. His own burned strong and visible - Arsène’s eyes flickered on the wall behind him. He smiled, and there was no mirth in it, “I thought we _assumed_ it was Kamoshida. Just because you didn’t want to know-”

Ann didn’t hear what else he said, because she’d already stormed from the room. He could keep his stupid condescension, and Morgana could keep his cry of, “Lady Ann!” and the fake boy who might have been Ryuji could keep his familiar sense of hopelessness.

There was one more room left.

She had to see what was in it.

The door creaked open, revealing a wide, circular stone room. Sand crunched softly beneath her feet. A girl was chained by her wrists to the wall. Her scarred body was almost completely exposed. Her face was covered by a burlap hood with bunny ears attacked to it. Above her, the words ‘Lucky Winner!!’ were painted in glaring red.

The girl was breathing, but only just. She hung limply, as if asleep - or more likely unconscious. Ann steeled herself, rushed to her side. She ripped the bag away.

Her hands trembled. _Everything_ trembled. Her legs gave out under her and all she could do was stare in horror and despair.

She couldn’t have _known_ that it would be Shiho.

But somehow, she felt like she should have.

There was an angry, purple bruise across Shiho’s face. It looked like someone had hit her with a baseball bat. She curled in on herself, as little as she could - as if taking off the bag meant _worse_ was coming. 

Ann didn’t want to think about what _worse_ was. Couldn’t do her friend the disservice of looking away from it.

“Oh, Shiho…” she whispered.

“But you wanted this!” the chipper, distorted voice didn’t belong anywhere near this room. On a balcony above the entryway, _she_ stood. The cognition with Ann’s face. She winked, leaning over the stone railing. One of her legs was upraised, bobbing back and forth carelessly, “As long as he’s not drooling over _you_ , right?”

“What?” Ann’s voice came out small, weak. She hated it, “N-no. Of course not…!”

“Oh, don’t lie - it’s just us girls!” The fake Ann rolled onto her back, her fingers toying with the collar of her habit, “King Kamoshida wants our _body_ ,” she slowly lifted a leg at the operative word, “… but it’s more fun to just tease, right? Well, tease too much and he’ll look somewhere else.”

Ann shook her head again and again. This was too much. Maybe she could’ve handled learning this all - in truth, confirming what she must’ve suspected all along - without it breaking her. But she couldn’t hear him rationalize it with _her_ mouth, even if it were just an awful phantom. 

Akira and Morgana rushed into the room, stopping aghast at what they saw. Akira swallowed, “Ann…”

“It’s Shiho.” She whimpered

The other Ann mimicked her sniff, “ _It’s Shiho_! So boring.” She turned her gaze on Akira, biting her lip. Her hands ran over her body, “Ooh, but you look fun! Wanna _play_?”

“Not on your life.” The boys had been followed. Outside Shiho’s prison, Kamoshida and his guards stood. They muscled their way in, Akira and Morgana giving ground to stand between them and Ann. Here she was again: cornered and powerless with _him_ blocking her only way out.

What had changed?

Now she knew what happened to others when she ran away.

Kamoshida swaggered toward them, hands on his hips, “Ah, I see you’ve found my newest decoration! I’d hoped my Ann- _chan_ and I could’ve finally stopped dancing around things, but if she’s still not willing, I’m more than happy to accept a substitute.”

Hollowly, Ann said to the ground, “So… because I wouldn’t let you…”

“I found someone who would to take your place,” Kamoshida grinned, “I’ll tell you, pulling her wasn’t even that hard. These Eleven girls: tell them you served under General Asprius, and suddenly they’ve got all these ideas of meeting Prince Clovis and getting whisked off on a white horse. I barely had to threaten at all!”

“That was _you_?” Ann barely had any energy left to be shocked, “Shiho thought she might get out… she was hoping so hard, and that was _you_?”

“Look on the bright side: now she’s risen as high as she can. Once you’re a king’s toy, there’s nowhere to go but down,” Kamoshida chuckled to himself, “Hell of a mouth on her.”

Something in Ann snapped. She shot to her feet - stopped just short of charging Kamoshida. Akira was already on that: he roared with all the fury he’d pent up in the training hall. His dagger spun, came down.

Kamoshida caught his blade hand, laughing amicably, “Hero! We just keep running into each other!”

“Fuck off,” Akira spat, “Arsène!”

Nothing happened. Kamoshida tsked. Before Ann, Morgana uttered, “Oh no… he couldn’t have picked a worse time.”

“ _Arsène_!!!” Akira cried again. Desperation was creeping into his voice. Aside from the sound of whispering wind, there was no sign he’d said anything. Kamoshida kneed him in the gut. Akira went down, and a foot on his back kept him down.

“Ooh, King Kamoshida!” the fake Ann gushed, practically writhing against the wall behind her, “So manly: you make a girl just wanna give it _all_ up!”

“Lady Ann, you need to run,” Morgana said through grit teeth, “I’ll hold them off, and try to get Frizz out too, but…”

She’d known that would come next: “I can’t just leave you two.”

The fake Ann cackled, tinny and obnoxious, “You know how I know you _will_? Because you leave everyone else! Let him have whoever he wants, as long as it’s not _you_ he’s on top of, right? If you _really_ cared about who he hurt, you wouldn’t look away!”

“You’re right.” Ann said. It was more to herself than anything else - she probably couldn’t get through to Kamoshida’s cognition of her anymore than she could reach Sakamato. But saying it made it real, and she had to accept that it was real, “Sometimes there’s so much awful and wrong that it feels like all I can do is pretend that I don’t see it,” she pointed at Kamoshida: let her rage burn white hot: no more hiding, “I see you. I know what you are. And I’m going to stop you!”

**“My… it’s taken far too long.”**

The words shot through Ann’s head like a bullet. Maybe something truly had: she still felt it there, a horrible spike pierced through her skull. There was a split second where numbness surged from the source, spreading all throughout her body. Instantly, pain replaced it. 

**“Tell me, who is going to avenge her, avenge all of them, if not you?”**

The voice was sharp and inescapable: Ann still heard it while all other sensation came and went. One moment she could hear Morgana’s panicked cries out to her, could see the chamber. The next her body refused her any understanding of the world outside of pain. 

**“You can avert your gaze no longer. You can run away no longer.”**

Ann’s knees gave out under her, and she tried to grab at her head to rip the spike out. Her hands, though, spasmed by instinct, like she’d put them on a hot surface. But the surface was _everywhere_.

**“Forgiving him was never an option. And you were not born to be a victim.”**

Her fingers raked through the sand, and it splintered and stabbed around them. It turned to glass at her touch. She was burning alive.

**“I am thou, thou art I.”**

But no, that wasn’t it: she _was_ the flame. Once she accepted that, it wasn’t that the pain went away. But it somehow seemed to matter less than the power that fueled it.

**“Look away, and you won’t see there is one path forward, and one alone.”**

Finally, her hand found the spike. But it wasn’t a spike after all. It was a mask

**“Very good: you see it now.”**

Ann did. Long ago, who could say when, she had decided she was too small to make a difference and resolved to endure the world anyway. She’d been lying. She was wearing that lie now. Ann _could_ change things. No one could stop her.

**“Then take my strength, and step forward.”**

“I will… Carmen.” 

Ripping the mask off stung, but it was better to do it fast. Blood sprayed from where it had sat, but it was a small price to pay for the eruption of power that followed.

A pillar of fire engulfed Ann. This time, when the flames licked at her, their touch was soothing. As it cleared, a woman emerged, taking her place at Ann’s back.

She - Carmen - was tall, beautiful, buxom. A fantasy given flesh, and by the way she carried herself, she knew it. Her dress, frills and frills of deepest red, swirled about her as if she were dancing. A belt of roses blossomed around her waist, hearts were strewn over her corset and leggings. The mask she wore, black and catlike, looked how Ann’s had felt. But on _Carmen_ , it was the mask a predator wore to hide it was dangerous.

There were two men in suits, their heads locked in hot pink metal hearts. Both were collared to her by the vines of her rose belt. One was her footstool. The other, she strung behind her like a kite. She’d find a use for him _if_ one arose. They mattered little anyway: they were mere tools to show her power.

Adrenaline rushed: that power was _Ann’s_ to command. Not a moment ago, she would have daydreamed about being her.

Now she was.

Her clothes had changed with her awakening: a bright red catsuit clung to her like a second skin. It shone - _she_ shone - in the dying embers of Carmen’s emergence. Matching red leather boots came up to her thigh. She should have felt naked and embarrassed and just generally unprepared to _move_ , let alone fight.

But here she was. Ann’s hand clenched around a bullwhip that had appeared in her hand. She shouldn’t have known how to handle it either, but she relished its crack. Fragments of glass rose where it struck the sand.

Kamoshida knew to be afraid, at least. He took a step back, necessarily freeing Akira in the process. That step was joined by another, and then another. His guards sank into the ground, rising again as black horned horses - jokes next to what was burning in her now.

Pointing at her, Kamoshida growled, “Guards, deal with them! _Don’t let them escape_!” Was that _pleading_ in his voice? It must’ve been: why else would he turn tail like that?

It wasn’t a rout, but it was a retreat. Kamoshida was running away from _her_.

What a welcome change.

A strange mix of the rage that had brought her this power and the joy that it brought colored her voice, “Morgana, are you ready for a fight?”

“Y-yes Ma’am!” Morgana yelped, bounding to her side.

Ann strode forward, allowing a little something extra into her hips as she moved. Her steps didn’t _really_ make the ground shake, but it _felt_ like they did. She smiled only a little smugly at Akira, “Catch your breath. I’ll handle this.”

“Like hell you will,” he grunted, lurching to his feet, “Can’t let myself get shown up.”

“You’ll have to,” she said sweetly. Her gaze went upward for just a moment. The other Ann, the false Ann, looked at her in wonder and awe. She grinned, “Keep an eye on this. You won’t want to miss it.”

Then she cracked the whip again. The first of the horse monsters exploded in fire, reduced to ash in a moment. Did Ann imagine the wonderstruck, “Wow…” from above?

It didn’t matter: the rest of the shadows charged, and all bets were off.

The boys did well enough: they’d been fighting all day, they got a pass. But Ann danced from moment to moment, strike to strike. Her whip set her rhythm: the enemies reared back from it, moved where she needed them. Carmen whispered her vision of what the battlefield would look like: Ann enforced it with lashes and flame. The shadows could do nothing but struggle and obey.

It was such a rush - so _this_ was what it was like to be powerful.

Ann was almost disappointed when they were gone. The walls were scorched from the balcony on down. The floor sparkled, curves and sheets of glass all that was left. The only spots that had been spared in the firestorm was a circle around the cognitive Shiho. She’d been through enough. Ann had burned away the word ‘Lucky’ above her. ‘Winner’ could stay.

She breathed in, breathed out, and closed her eyes. Exhilaration lasted a few moments: it was tempered by the memory of what Akira’s awakening had been like. _He’d_ reverted to his merely mortal (as opposed to Ann’s presently divine) body the first time he used his persona. The same must’ve been coming for Ann.

No, worse was coming. Suddenly she was on her knees, and her breathing was coming out ragged. From ready to take on the world, suddenly she was more ready for a twenty year nap, “That… was a lot.”

“That _was_ a lot!” Morgana either cheered or chided or both, “Lady Ann, that was _incredible_! I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d find _two_ persona users!”

“You were amazing,” Akira agreed. He wasn’t _jealous,_ was he? Ann couldn’t decide what she hoped. His smile was good natured enough, as was the hand he offered, “You good to go? We might be able to catch up to Kamoshida if we hurry. And if you let _that_ out on him…”

Ann nodded, “Yeah… just give me a sec.” She closed her eyes, braced herself to stand, tried it out. This was fine.

No, no it wasn’t, she was stumbling. Akira caught her arm, righting her as gently as he could. Closer up, he was _obviously_ on the verge of collapse too. Morgana hesitated, and finally said, “We… should go.”

Together, Akira and Ann cried out, “What!?” They made as if to rush the cat, and in the process, both nearly fell over.

He sighed, “You two are falling apart. Lady Ann, you’ve got an excuse: you just awoke to a persona - and what a persona!” Glaring at Akira, he added, “You just overdid it. Rookie mistake.”

“Up yours, cat.”

“I told you, I’m…” Morgana let out a frustrated hiss.

He had a point though: even if they did catch up to Kamoshida, who could say what he’d throw at them. If she was honest with herself, Ann knew she couldn’t face whatever it was. 

For a moment, though, she _had_. So much of today had been loss after loss after loss, but that one _win_ made all the difference. Ann could make everything _right_ now. She just had to play it right.

“Akira and I’ll regroup in the real world,” she said, “I’ll… try and confirm what we saw.” Already, she dreaded what she’d have to ask Shiho. But she needed to know.

There was something else she needed to do, too. Ann closed her eyes, asked Carmen for just a little more. Two embers blossomed on Shiho’s wrists, and the chains melted away. She slumped to the ground, seemingly unaware. Ann went to her side, helped her lay more upright.

“Lady Ann, I told you before: that’s just a cognition. Letting her go won’t actually do anything…”

Ann smiled back at Morgana. “Won’t know unless we try.”


	7. Unleashing

**August 7, 2017 A.T.B. - Ryuji**

There had been several tiny, pyrrhic victories. No one had seen him crying. The first team he’d found had been Mishima’s, and he was more than understanding (even if Ichijo and Nagase seemed a little less so). They’d helped patch him up and explain what had happened to Ms. Kawakami. And Ryuji still had a job, however much that was worth.

When the sun set and they finally all crammed back into the van that would bring them back to the ghetto, it hadn’t felt like much. He only stole a few glances at Suzui, new pangs of guilt stabbing through him each time he did. She never returned his gaze.

The street lamps that worked were on by the time they got back to Emvi B. In the hushed tones of a woman who knew nothing was alright and never could be alright, Ms. Kawakami had commended them all on a job well done. Then she’d told them to rest up for tomorrow, and they’d all headed home. They’d grouped up: Shinjuku could get dangerous at night, _especially_ when the occupation was focused on other things. Ryuji hadn’t cared who he ran into, and so went home alone.

He didn’t know what time he got back home. It couldn’t have been _too_ late, he’d passed one of his neighbors on their way to work while he was going up the stairs. He’d still been careful opening the door in case Mom was home and asleep. She’d been neither, so he’d collapsed into fitful sleep before she could get home and ask what had happened to him.

Ryuji dodged that as well: she was already headed back out for work by the time he was up the next day. Because no matter how sorry he felt for himself, _she_ was the one who was actually suffering.

If she only knew what a failure all of her efforts were going toward supporting.

The longer they went without seeing one another, the longer he’d have to heal up enough that she’d never be the wiser. No need for her to worry or for him to make a doctor’s appointment they couldn’t afford. Worst case scenario, she could just wonder if his nose had _always_ been that crooked.

Ryuji assessed the damage in the mirror before school: it would be fine. It didn’t seem like it was _too_ knocked out of place. He could probably set it back himself, and then it’d just be a matter of waiting for it to heal. It still hurt like hell to touch, of course: it took Ryuji two tries to ignore the pain enough to try and straighten it. He taped it down with more bandages than a professional would have needed, and called the job done.

He stared at his reflection for longer than he’d planned. Back and forth, they debated the merits of skipping today. Whether that meant school or work or both, he couldn’t decide. His reflection raised the interesting prospect of just curling back up in bed instead. Given his headspace, it couldn’t be that much worse for his grades than going to class would be. It _probably_ wasn’t a good idea to miss his second day of work. But what were they gonna do, fire him? That didn’t feel like much of a threat.

Still, his school and work uniforms found their way onto his body and into his bag, perhaps less reverently than yesterday. Ryuji had thought this job could lead to something good then. He knew better now. But just because he couldn’t think of how, that didn’t mean that not going couldn’t make things worse.

His bandage job only got a few weird stares on the street. None of them lasted long: ‘oh, a punk kid got his face smashed in. Makes sense.’

Briefly or not, Ryuji was in no mood to be gawked at. He stopped in his tracks just short of what had been a bar before the Invasion. It had gotten too pounded to turn into anything else since.

A part of its outer wall had been blown away just enough that Ryuji could get a good stretch in. Just lift a leg up and squat. He let out a satisfied grunt with each one, did a few quick jumping jacks in lieu of a full, proper stretch.

Then he broke into a run. Shinjuku blurred around him: he could have been anywhere. Where didn’t matter. Who was looking didn’t matter. Who he was and what he’d failed to do… they mattered, but for now he didn’t have to think about them.

Running was perfect for that. There was no _thinking_ to it, no getting lost in your head. There was wind in your face and the pounding in your chest. Your thoughts all cleared until all that was left was breath and pavement. The world could try to catch up, but if it started to, it just meant you weren’t giving it your all.

No patrols stopped him today: Ryuji ran all the way to school, pausing only briefly for inspection at the gate. He didn’t let that slow his momentum: Emvi B might not have had a track to run, but he could still run laps around the building before class. He got six in before the bell rang.

There was no hope of him focusing in any of his classes after yesterday, so he didn’t bother with pretending to try. If he let himself drift through this day, it would be over, and never mind that another one just like it was waiting at the end.

He made an exception for free period: there, he kept his eyes out for Suzui. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do if she wasn’t there, but it was a moot point. There she was with the rest of Class A, smiling along with some girls in her class as if nothing was wrong. And if it wasn’t as wide as Ryuji remembered, or if it didn’t reach her eyes, well of course it didn’t.

If you didn’t know what to look for, then you wouldn’t see anything. Frankly, she was doing an amazing job of hiding it.

Maybe that meant there was nothing to hide? Ryuji hadn’t actually _seen_ Kamoshida do anything to her. Suzui could have been acting fine because she _was_ fine.

But meanwhile, in the real world, Ryuji couldn’t fool himself with thoughts like that.

He wanted to go over to her and say something. But he couldn’t think of anything he could possibly say to her that would make the situation better, and a million things that would make it worse.

And he couldn’t shake the thought: what if all he really wanted was to go over there and have her tell him that things were okay and that he shouldn’t blame himself? He knew he couldn’t help, so what else could he want at this point?

Ah, but what if he was using thoughts like that as an excuse not to go over there and take responsibility? Maybe he was avoiding offering Suzui his shoulder because the memory would be another blow to his precious pride.

You couldn’t win. Whatever the right answer was, Ryuji left Suzui alone.

There was so much to dwell on for the rest of classes that he couldn’t spend the _whole_ time wondering if he’d made the wrong choice. It was never far from his mind, though.

A hypothetical conversation if he had gone to Suzui was playing in his head the first time Ms. Kawakami called his name. He didn’t realize until the silence stood out, dragging him back into reality. Ms. Kawakami barely tried to disguise her impatience, “ _Sakamoto_. Please see me after class.”

A part of Ryuji wanted to ask if that was supposed to be before or after they both dressed up like idiots to pick up after rich kids. Instead he mumbled acquiescence and sunk into his seat. Then it was right back into his head.

He was getting fired after all. That was all it could be. Somehow, details of his altercation with Kamoshida had gotten back to the company. They’d be more interested in him causing a fuss than who’d actually done what to whom, and it was easier to let him go than do anything else. Stepping back and looking at it from the cold perspective of the people in charge, it made sense. In a stupid way. And he got out of having to go through it again. Why should that bother him?

Maybe because it meant Suzui was going back into _that_ alone?

Like she wasn’t already.

When Ryuji’s classmates cleared out, Mishima gave him an acknowledging nod. Who could say what it was supposed to mean. Something like ‘good luck, see you at work’ probably.

Soon it was just him and Ms. Kawakami. She was holding a sheaf of papers. Ryuji didn’t know how they could have that thick of a case against him, but wonders never ceased. Flipping through the pile, she observed, “I noticed that I don’t have your essay?”

It took Ryuji a second to even know what she was talking about. When he realized, he said, “Uh… no. You don’t.”

He should’ve been relieved, but honestly he was too perplexed. Ms. Kawakami eyed him, “Or the last three assignments for English, to say nothing of your other classes.”

They were really gonna do this. Okay. Ryuji rubbed at the back of his neck, “I thought I was gonna have more time after work, but…” he shrugged. Let her fill in the blanks.

“Sakamoto- _kun_ , you’ve known about this assignment for a week. Or you would if you were paying attention,” Ms. Kawakami crossed her arms, leaning back against her desk. It was hard to tell if she was exasperated for Ryuji or at him, “I’ll give you an extension for this one at half credit, but you’ll _still_ be failing English.”

“I’m not worried about that,” he said in English, not entirely lying. Yeah it bothered him when he got bad grades, but some nights it didn’t seem worth the effort to try and do better. And _now_ it just seemed completely trivial, “Not a lotta Brit kids are gonna ask me what I thought of Shakespeare. All I need to do is push a mop,” he bit his tongue, but the last part slipped out anyway, “And take a punch.”

At least Ms. Kawakami paused. She was either looking at his eyes or his bandages, “I’m sorry for whatever it was that happened yesterday.” Really? Because she had _no idea_? “Given the circumstances, there isn’t much that we can do without a witness.”

He wasn’t going to put Suzui through that. Especially not when he was so grimly sure _she’d_ gotten worse. Which meant, “There isn’t one.”

Ms. Kawakami nodded in understanding. There was another silence, “If you don’t feel _safe_ at Ashford anymore…”

He cut her off, “I’m not quitting.”

“Okay,” she closed her eyes, breathed deeply, “Then if you want to stay with the company, you have to at least _try_ to improve your grades.”

“Why?” Ryuji had meant it as petulance, but it had come out instead as a genuine question, “It’s not like I’m gonna be able to do anything _else_ after school.” He laughed, although there was nothing funny about it, “Or even if I _do_ … I mean, how’s teaching going?”

Something that looked like wounded pride flashed in Ms. Kawakami’s eyes, “You need to watch that mouth, Sakamoto.” He knew that: it was a lesson he’d learned over and over again, more painfully than anything Ms. Kawakami could threaten. Which, of course, almost set him off again, but contrary to popular belief, he must’ve had some sense after all, “If you really think that you’ll be better off dropping out and focusing on work, that _is_ an option.”

She left it at that, and somehow that was worse. It didn’t seem like there was an implicit ‘and then you’ll be out of my hair.’ But wasn’t there?

Dropping out would kinda be a dream: one less thing to stress about. But it would feel too much like giving up. If Ryuji ever did, then it meant that every time time someone tossed a ‘simple minded Eleven’ his way, they were _right_.

He hoped the way he glared at his desk expressed that. Ms. Kawakami sighed, “I’m going to arrange a meeting with the student council to get you tutoring. Or, if you decide you _do_ want to try another option - going full time, enlisting, something like that.” No, no, probably no, “They can help you take the steps to do whatever you choose.”

“Cool, thanks,” Ryuji muttered. 

“Please keep your schedule open for that in the meantime - obviously I’ll make sure you’re not working for the meeting.” She forced a smile - she had to at least _pretend_ she thought any of this would do any good, “Just apply yourself, and try to stay out of trouble.”

Ryuji had thought he _had_ been doing that, but apparently he’d been wrong. He grumbled something nonverbal and noncommittal, and it served to get them both out of the classroom. They parted ways more or less immediately: both of them had to go get changed.

Such a mundane issue to be having: the continuing saga of Ryuji Sakamoto sucking at school. It almost felt like a pleasant diversion from his _new_ problems. 

Loading back into the company van was an ordeal again. Before the soldier even searched his bag, Ryuji had to answer questions about his face. 

It was especially stupid because he couldn’t even just tell the truth about that. _That_ would be an accusation, and _that_ simply would not do. So he had to make something up, and the best he had was that he’d slipped and taken an unlucky fall.

The asshole looking through his bag actually snorted, “Seriously?”

Yeah, that was seriously the best he could come up with. Ryuji didn’t have to fake the embarrassment, though his smile could probably use work, “Yeah. First days.”

And that somehow satisfied them. They went through his bag - maybe even less thoroughly now that they knew he was just a moron. Then they let him go with an amused, “Watch your step, Eleven.”

He kept his face blank until he was in the van, and didn’t let his teeth grit until he flopped down next to Mishima, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied, “Another day, huh?”

“Seems that way.” Ryuji glanced around the van. Suzui was here, and maybe he was just imagining that her shoulders sagged a little more, her gaze turned just a little further down.

Mishima smiled awkwardly, “What did Kawakami- _sensei_ want?”

“Didn’t do the _Hamlet_ essay.”

“Oh,” he nodded, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I thought she might’ve been talking about… well, you met _him_ yesterday, right?”

Ryuji set his jaw, let off a little of the steam that the soldiers had built up, “Yeah. Thanks for the warning, by the way.”

Mishima winced, “I… didn’t think you’d run into him. At least not your first day. Or even if you did, I didn’t think… the worst I’ve ever gotten was a black eye.”

A few more students came into the van. Mostly they seemed to be the same team as yesterday, but there were a couple of new faces. Ryuji focused on them instead of Mishima: it’d be too hard to maintain righteous indignation if he looked at him, “Then why’d you go back _at all_?”

“Settlement jobs pay better,” Mishima said simply, “And it’s not like it’d be better somewhere else. Honestly, I’ve heard it gets a lot worse.”

Tell that to Suzui, “That’s impossible.”

“If you think that, I don’t know where you’ve been the last seven years.”

And Ryuji just had no response to that, because he was right. Still, he knocked his head back against his seat, ignoring the threatening twinge in his nose, “Sucks.”

“Yeah,” Mishima agreed without much heat. They stayed quiet until the van started moving, at which point Mishima asked, “You gonna try and make up the essay?”

“Probably not,” Ryuji said flippantly, hoping a little that Ms. Kawakami heard, “Tell me about the book anyway.”

* * *

Today, Ryuji was on landscaping. He suspected a part of it was the bigger group: he could probably get into a lot less trouble if there were more guys to hold him back. Assuming it didn’t come looking for him, which Ryuji would argue was most of the trouble he got into.

It meant working with Mishima, and honestly, there were worse things. Now that he’d decided that things were alright between the two of them, he filled practically every moment with chatter. Ryuji should’ve been grateful: if he _did_ end up trying to do that essay, maybe he’d have a snowball’s chance now.

Assuming, that is, that he was able to pull his attention from Suzui. 

What exactly was the rationale of putting them in the same group again? Was it just two separate ideas, each fine on their own?

‘Put Sakamoto in a larger group so he won’t cause trouble.’

‘Put Suzui in a larger group so she’ll be safe.’

And in both cases, cool, fine. But also, maybe think it through a little more? Because all Ryuji could think about every time he looked her way was yesterday. No matter how much she mouthed off at Mishima or Shiota, he was sure she felt the same way.

She could put on a brave face as much as she liked. Britannia had given them all seven years training as actors: they could tell the difference between her confidence yesterday and whatever _this_ was.

How much did the others _know_? It wasn’t like anyone on the cleaning team made a point of talking to Ryuji - except maybe Mishima. But from what little he’d been able to pick up, there seemed to be an understanding that Kamoshida was trouble.

But like, how _much_ trouble? The others couldn’t possibly have _known_ the extent of what he was doing. This must’ve been a new low - there was just no way that Kamoshida could have done this to someone else and the cleaning crew just accepted it and come in to work the next day. 

Then again, _Ryuji_ had. Even if he _was_ sabotaging that work from inside his head.

Suzui pulled him out of there, casting a sharp look over her shoulder, “Hey, Sakamoto- _kun_. We need you on Earth.” 

He stiffened, murmured an apology. She dismissed it and turned back around. Ryuji tried not to think about the fact that she was still avoiding eye contact.

All Kamoshida had done was broken Ryuji’s nose, and it had practically shattered him as a person. After what happened to _her_ , how could Suzui still act so tough? Forget tough, how could she pretend things were _normal_?

They’d be picking up from where the team yesterday had left off. Ashford was too big a campus for six people to maintain in a day, so you tackled it piece by piece. Today, bad luck would start them over by the gym again.

There was a miniature forest of evenly spaced, almost identical trees just outside the building. Ryuji vaguely remembered cutting through it, but he’d been too distraught and humiliated and pathetic to take too much notice of his surroundings. Long handled shears in hand, their job for now was to manicure the trees. Some of them wanted to reach beyond the boundaries Ashford afforded them, and had to be reined in.

What were they even fixing? They all looked alike to Ryuji. Suzui and Mishima had to take a moment to show him what the standards were before they got started. Then they got to work.

Ichijo shouldered his own clippers, glancing upwind, “Hey, Suzui- _chan_. You gonna be alright if we get started on the lawns? This isn’t really a six person job.”

“Do what you want,” she said.

It apparently didn’t satisfy him, though. Ichijo eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, resolving to trudge up to her and give her shoulder a gentle nudge, “Hey. You al-”

He stopped, because by the way she jumped back at his touch, she obviously wasn’t. Ryuji watched as they looked at each other for a few moments, a silent conversation playing out between them. A stone was sinking deeper and deeper into his stomach. When he thought it could sink no further, she let out a cracking laugh, “God, sneak up on people much, Ichijo- _san_?”

Ryuji should’ve spoken up. Taken the decision and the others’ attention off of her. But here he was again. Helpless to do anything but watch. 

Ichijo opened his mouth to say something, but must’ve thought better, retreating back into silence. He tried again, “We’ll stay nearby if you need us.”

She nodded, overselling nonchalance, “Cool.”

Hesitating only a moment longer, Ichijo called out, “Shiota, Odera, you’re with me.” The two - a first year scrawnier than Mishima and a tall girl with wavy hair, respectively - didn’t do a good job of hiding their sighs of relief. Had they felt the tension there, or were they just ready to move on to something else? 

Didn’t matter: either way, they were getting their wish. Ducking under a branch, Ichijo called out, “Sakamoto, Mishima. Suzui’s in charge while I’m gone. Stay where she can keep an eye on you.”

It was a little ham-fisted. Ryuji thought that maybe Suzui scoffed under her breath. 

With the others gone, it the three of them were left to a new and more awkward silence by the edge of the makeshift forest. To his credit, Mishima tried to fill the gaps with smalltalk. Suzui seemed resolved to concentrate on her work, sticking to one word answers. Ryuji followed her lead.

Somewhere on campus, a bell rang out to mark half past the hour. As if on cue, the doors to the gym opened up. Ashford students in black and cream poured out. After yesterday, Ryuji was half ready to get their supplies together and go somewhere out of sight. The others stayed put, though. And sure enough, most of the students just passed by them without a second look. They really _were_ invisible to most of them.

That might not have been the worst thing in the world either. The less confrontation the better, obviously. But people who didn’t notice you would talk about anything in front of you, it turned out. Most of it was inane bullshit. But even that was better than dragging, awful quiet.

And some of it actually made Ryuji’s ears perk up. Case in point: two girls in light yellow shorts and jerseys that must’ve been sports uniforms.

“Hey, did Ann ask you about practice too?”

“Yeah - do you think she’s thinking about signing up for the team?”

The first girl blew a raspberry, “As if. She asked me if I thought practice was _too rough_. Girl like that wouldn’t last two seconds with Coach.”

The second girl only sputtered laughter at that, which Ryuji didn’t understand and didn’t care to. Ann had been asking after one of the teams? Assuming it was the same Ann, what did that mean?

No time for that: someone tapped him on his shoulder. Ryuji whirled, taken aback to suddenly not be a ghost. A part of him was ready to swing. Good thing that he didn’t, though: the girl (blue hair again, what was _with_ Britannians?) barely came up to his shoulder. She pointed to her nose, and chirped in the worst Japanese Ryuji had ever heard, “I hate look at second man.”

What. He blinked. Cracked a smile, “Thanks?”

The girl smiled, so proud of herself, pumping a fist. When she said, “ _Ganbatte_!” it sounded a lot closer to something coherent. Clichés must’ve been easier. 

Then she pranced off to rejoin some other tittering girls from whatever team the gossip girls had come from. He turned to Mishima and Suzui, mouthed, ‘What the fuck was that?’

The two of them were just as dumbfounded as him. Mishima whispered, “Maybe… maybe it was a fairy?”

Suzui let out what might have started out as a surprised cough, but evolved into a laugh. What had been sinking in Ryuji floated back up. If she could laugh at whatever _that_ was, maybe Ryuji was imagining things. 

And that wasn’t impossible! Maybe yesterday _hadn’t_ broken her the way it had him. Was it really so hard to believe that she was stronger than him - stronger than he could _imagine_? 

Cautiously, he let himself laugh with her. The two of them broke Mishima too. It must’ve been a sight: three Eleven janitors brandishing pruning sheers and laughing at how ridiculous this world could be.

And if Ryuji stopped thinking, he could pretend that they were _only_ laughing at a dumb Britannian kid’s complete lack of a grasp on their language. That the absurdity of that idyllic, fantasy world connected to yet separate from their own had nothing to do with it. And it had nothing to do with how unfair it was that _that_ could happen here when _yesterday_ had happened in the same place. They _weren’t_ laughing because the alternative was to cry.

Besides, sometimes there was no choice to be made between the two. Suzui finally looked at him, wiping her eyes. Ryuji let himself believe they were tears of mirth, but only for a moment. Her voice wavered a little with what was either a giggle or a sob, “What, Sakamoto- _kun_ , you’re not gonna go after her? Girl was _all over_ you.”

Ryuji snorted. He puffed himself up a little - it made him think of a clown, and if it made her happy, then that was worth it, “Nah.” He flicked his hair back and told the biggest joke of all, “I think I can do better.”

Suzui didn’t laugh, or even smile at that. It was disappointing, but at the same time Ryuji couldn’t help but be grateful. It cracked Mishima up, but he didn’t _get it_. Not the way that she did. Quietly, she said, “I hope so.”

Ryuji swallowed. He tried to find the suave, dapper Ryuji he’d seen in a lying, fun house mirror yesterday, before everything had happened. _He_ would know what to say, “Hey. If any of us can, it’s you, Suzui.”

 _That_ she laughed at.

This was torture. Ryuji needed to find something, _anything_ that could distract her, distract _him._ Or something that could make it somehow even a _little_ closer to okay.

What he _wanted_ was to run. Again.

Even more so when he heard, “Well, you all seem to be having a good time.”

The words were in Japanese. They were light, airy - easy to disguise from any Britannian kids who didn’t speak the language well enough. They were cock-sure, twinged with something Ryuji hadn’t known was danger.

They were Kamoshida’s. Ryuji stiffened, and saw the others do the same. Like taking even the most melancholy, painful joy you could was somehow a crime. The giant strode over towards them, “Hard at work, are we?”

Ryuji glared up at that big stupid grin. A fantasy played in his head: he’d run the bastard through with his shears. 

Kamoshida chuckled. He kept his tone upbeat, disguised. Fuck him, that was _their_ trick. He gave up the right to it when he decided not to be an Eleven, “Now _that’s_ a scary look, kid.” He grinned, showing a bit of fang, “But it’s just a look, right? You don’t need a remedial lesson?”

Ryuji cast his eyes at the ground, his fist clenching around what he was increasingly thinking of as a weapon. It would come out of nowhere. He’d never be able to do anything about it. It would be the last dumb thing Ryuji ever did and _it would be worth it_.

Only it wouldn’t. If he remembered to breathe, he could see that. Who knows what would happen to Mishima and Suzui if he assaulted - murdered - a Britannian citizen in front of them. Or even the other cleaners. Or Mom - he’d be leaving her behind, assuming she didn’t somehow get dragged down with him.

Even if she didn’t - even if everyone else turned out fine, Ryuji couldn’t make himself do it. No matter how he turned it over in his head, he still couldn’t see it as _victory_.

Before he could find a way to, he dropped the shears. That was at the same time that Kamoshida put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing with just the hint of threat, “You gonna answer me, Eleven? Do you need another lesson?”

Ryuji’s face always betrayed him. So he kept it looking down, “No, sir.”

Removing his hand, Kamoshida seemed to swell with pride. Such a fucking conquering hero, “There we go, you’re learning!” He considered Ryuji for just a moment longer - his eyes were all over the bandages. Then he just turned and left. There wasn’t any last parting shot: he’d just been admiring his handiwork.

No, there was one - it just wasn’t aimed at Ryuji, “Oh, Suzui- _chan_. Come find me in the entrance hall before your shift ends. There’s something I want to speak to you about.”

Ryuji thought he’d feel her stiffen, see her flinch away from him. Instead, she just bowed her head and nodded. Kamoshida didn’t see it: he was already as good as gone. 

_Should’ve fucking stabbed him you fucking coward._

As if he’d read Ryuji’s mind, Mishima gave him a look of pale white horror. If he’d suspected before, he _knew_ now. The look on his face begged Ryuji to offer some alternate explanation, to make it not true. All Ryuji could give back was grim silence. 

Mishima fidgeted, took a step toward Suzui, stopped. He wanted to say something.

But none of them said anything. None of them even so much as moved again until Kamoshida faded from view. Then Suzui looked up, and was unable to keep her voice from breaking a little, “We should get back to work.”

So they did. Agonizingly, yet mercifully, no one else saw them: they were beneath the notice of all but the worst of Ashford. It gnawed at your pride, but at the same time, thank god. If only the rest of the world ignored them so easily. Ryuji tried to lose himself in his work, but every little snip of the pruning shears screamed at him for failing again. 

And that was _bullshit_. That was beating himself up for _nothing_. What had he ‘failed’ to do? What was he gonna do, get his face beat in again? He’d _done_ that, and what had that prevented?

So what, instead he was just gonna cover his eyes and ears, do his job, and pretend he did all he could? Just stand next to Suzui like, ‘wow, sucks to be you. Wish I could do something about it.’

But he _did_ wish that. He really, completely, desperately _did_. 

Then why hadn’t he? If he really _wanted_ to help Suzui, he’d have found a way. That’s what a real man would have done.

On and on, back and forth he spiraled. It wasn’t fair, he’d already found what would do for rock bottom until worse inevitably came along. Nothing had changed, so he should’ve been numb to it.

Suzui’s voice pulled him back to the real world, “Hey. Cover for me, I’m gonna duck out for a moment.”

“Why?” Mishima asked, too suddenly, too obviously concerned, “Where’re you gonna go?”

She looked at him, and some of that bite found its way back to her, “Gee, Mishima- _san_. I’ve either been in class or working since morning, where could I _possibly_ be going?” He let out an embarrassed noise, returning to work suitably abashed. Suzui sighed, planting her shears in the dirt. She headed off the way they’d come, pausing at Ryuji’s back. 

She lightly punched his shoulder - tapped it with her fist, really, “Take care of yourself.”

Sometimes he doubted he ever could, “You too.”

Suzui smiled, and then she was gone.

Things were quiet again after she left. After a few minute - apparently to build up his courage, Mishima stammered, “What… what actually happened yesterday?” Ryuji grit his teeth. He _knew_ , so why the hell ask? Rather than answer, he chopped meaningfully at the next tree. It didn’t deter Mishima, “It’s just… you, uh… well, you ran into Kamoshida.”

Ryuji glared up into space, tried to zone out even though that would mean trading Mishima’s interrogation for his own.

“And Suzui was with you,” he explained, nerves creeping into his voice, “But… but she wasn’t when we found you, so I was just wondering what exactly happened…?”

“If you want to know what happened to Suzui, you should ask Suzui,” Ryuji said flatly. 

Mishima flinched from the very prospect of that, which was fair: it wasn’t like Ryuji had ever really been able to confirm with her either, “It’s just… sometimes she seems like everything’s fine, but then something happens and she just freaks out, or doesn’t look right, or…?”

He trailed off, clearly intending for Ryuji to fill in the blank. He had to shut him down, “It’s not my place to talk about it.”

“So you _do_ know?” Mishima asked, utterly refusing to take the hint.

If he wouldn’t stop talking about it, Ryuji would, “I think the trees are fine. What do we do next?”

There was a pause. Mishima shrugged, pointedly saying, “Maybe _Suzui_ will know,”

“Great, then you can ask _her_ loaded personal questions,” Ryuji snapped. 

“Why’re you being like this?!” Mishima shouted.

He was forgetting to be invisible: the two of them got a few awkward looks from students. Someone whispered, “What do you think they’re fighting about?” Thank god Ryuji didn’t hear the response, because whatever it was made them laugh.

Flushed, Mishima was more subdued, “I just want to _help,_ Sakamoto- _kun_. And if you tell me what happened, maybe I can…?”

“I don’t _know_ what happened,” Ryuji said, partly a reminder to himself that he didn’t have absolute, clear, _legal_ certainty. Even if that was somewhat dishonest to tell himself. He rounded on Mishima, pulse pounding, and said, “But whatever it was, _I couldn’t stop it_. Neither can you.”

He looked ready to refute that. Ryuji tried to imagine tiny little Mishima taking on Kamoshida. Absurd. _He_ liked a good underdog story, but Britannia didn’t.

At least Mishima didn’t take long to realize it. He hung his head, “I’m sorry.”

Some of the tension abated. Ryuji relaxed, but only a little, “Nothing _wrong_ with trying to help, man. You just can’t.” That was beginning to feel more and more like a general truth.

It would never be satisfying, though. Mishima let out a sigh that attested to that. He pulled out Suzui’s clippers, taking some refuge in work, “I think the next thing we should do is find Ichijo. Suzui’ll come back and figure out we’re done.”

That made sense. Ryuji shouldered his own, trying to find some light to put back in his voice, “She’s been gone a while.”

“Yeah,” Mishima said, “Where do you think she actually went?”

Ryuji blinked, “Uh… what?”

For a moment, Mishima was just as confused as he was. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “There’s a bathroom in the gym, Sakamoto- _kun_.” Yeah, actually, of course there was, “But she went the other way. So…”

Something didn’t sit right. Something was, in fact, beginning to gnash and gnaw at Ryuji’s mind. His mouth a little dry, he said, “So I’ll go find her?”

“Yeah. I’ll let the others know?”

The plan set, they parted ways. Ryuji didn’t _run_ to find Suzui. But something in the back of his mind prodded him to go just a _little_ faster. Even if he had no idea where he was going, and a solid couple acres she could be, that just meant he had to cover more ground.

Maybe she’d gone to the entrance hall. That’s where Kamoshida had told her to go - though if anything, that seemed a reason to stay the hell away. But maybe, lacking any real _escape,_ Suzui had figured it would be easier to submit and get it over with?

The thought made Ryuji’s stomach turn, and he picked up the pace.

That had to be his imagination running wild. There was _no way_.

No matter how he looked, though, there was no sign of her. Or of any of the rest of the cleaning staff. You wouldn’t know to look around that there was any staff, Elevens or otherwise. Clumps of students gathered here and there to enjoy another perfect little day in their perfect little world. Did they just have free rein of the school?

Apparently: Ryuji stopped in his tracks, briefly awestruck as six or seven students on horseback thundered over the hills in the distance. It was just… kinda surreal. He should’ve been over what different standards Ashford students lived by. Yesterday had made the point loud and clear.

But damn, man. They were riding free, further from him than one end of Emvi B was from the other. How could he not be a little jealous?

Shrilly, someone shouted, “Would you just drop it already?!” Ryuji almost thought someone had read his mind. But no, they weren’t even talking to him: some queen bee type was laying down the law. She had long black hair and longer legs. Oddly, her glasses were broken. 

She was bearing down on Ann. Ryuji almost did a double take. Twice in two days? No way.

Backed by four more girls in sports uniforms, she spat for their benefit, “I wouldn’t expect someone like _you_ to get it, but volleyball is _work_. Sometimes work hurts.”

A nasally voice at her back added, “Yeah, not all of us wanna just get paid to take our clothes off.”

Ann balled her hands into fists at her side. She was taller than all of them, but still seemed to shrink. Didn’t mean she couldn’t bite back, “I didn’t even say anything about volleyball - I just wanted to know how you broke your glasses.”

The girl adjusted them as if that would fix them, “Oh my god, people _talk to each other_ , Ann. You’re asking about the team. Why?”

“Checking up on her _man_ ,” somebody quipped, setting some of the group to giggles. 

Ann absolutely _seethed_ , “You know what…!?”

None of them had to find out what. Because some suicidal urge had made Ryuji shout, “Hey!” 

That’s all that it took to get all eyes were on him. They were more surprised than anything - almost impressed, even. One of the servants _dared_ speak to them? Queen bee sneered, crossed her arms, “Yes? Something we can help you with, Eleven?”

He gulped, snapped into a deep bow. ‘Hey.’ Well done, Ryuji. He overcorrected, “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, ladies,” no, that was less subservient and more ‘creep in an alley.’ Whatever, press on, “I think I’ve lost my place. Which way is the entrance hall?”

Queen bee clicked her tongue, and Ryuji braced himself for something absolutely poisonous. Instead, he got a treat: Ann seized his forearm and pulled, “Here, it’s this way, come with me!”

Ryuji as startled enough that he just let himself be moved. He was pretty sure something exactly like this had happened by the river, seven years and a lifetime ago - her dragging him where she demanded. They _probably_ hadn’t been rescuing each other back then.

Now they definitely were: Ann gave him a glare that he was getting all too used to. The ‘you shouldn’t be butting into things you can’t help’ look. It could go to hell. At least she said, “Thanks for that. But y’know…”

“You could’ve handled it?” Ryuji guessed. Wait. Shit. She didn’t recognize him, she thought he was just a mouthy servant, “I mean… I couldn’t just let a lady in peril be… uh…”

“Oh my god.” Ann stopped under a marble archway. They’d found their way to the entrance walkway. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she breathed deeply. In Japanese, she said, “It’s okay. You don’t have to treat me like… I dunno, some noblewoman.”

That was a relief: Ryuji was quickly going to run out of deferential bullshit, “Yeah, uh… sorry.”

“No worries,” Ann said. It was so surreal to be here just _talking_ to her. There had been a part of Ryuji that had wondered if she’d been real yesterday, or just his mind inventing the perfect person to see him at his lowest. But, no, here she was.

Puberty had done her _a lot_ of favors.

He tried to listen to her instead of thinking of that, “I _could’ve,_ though. Handled them, I mean.” Something in the quirk of Ann’s lip convinced him. It faded quickly - maybe it hadn’t been meant to slip out. More concerned, she chided, “But _you_ shouldn’t be starting things when you’re not even allowed to fight back.”

Ryuji almost laughed. She had _no_ idea, “I dunno what you’re talking about - I was just asking directions.”

She snorted, “Right.”

There was a pause. Ryuji wondered if he should use it to duck out - he still had to find Suzui. And he probably shouldn’t be seen here talking to an Ashford student. People would talk. And he’d get fired for slacking.

But on the other hand, he’d kinda figured he’d never see Ann again until yesterday. And now it wasn’t even killing him to see her.

Damn if he could figure out what to say to her, though.

She fidgeted a little, “So, uh… Sakamoto, right? After… uh…” she gestured to her nose, and he nodded, “We ran into one of your co-workers, and…”

“Yeah, I gotcha.” He rubbed the back of his head, “Uh… thanks. For trying to…” he tried to find some of Suzui’s ‘don’t worry, everything is fine,’ “Like, I don’t even know why I ran. I think I was still - you know what? Doesn’t matter.”

“Can I… ask you something personal?”

He nodded, and got ready to face the music. Yes, he was the same Sakamoto she faintly remembered from childhood, and yes, it was pathetic what different turns their lives had taken.

But she didn’t ask that. Instead, after she took a breath, Ann looked at him steely eyed and asked, “Did Kamoshida do that to you?”

It startled Ryuji so much that for a moment he couldn’t answer. His voice came out small, as if confessing something _he’d_ done, “Yeah.”

Now what was _that_ sparking in her eyes? Ann bowed a little, and it was so weird to have such a basic show of respect from someone _above_ him, “Thank you. You’re the first person who’s given me a straight answer.”

She made it sound like something special. Well, in a way it _was_ : Ryuji was the only guy with that little sense. Someone smarter would be keeping his head down right about now. They wouldn’t be letting themselves get intrigued, “So is that what _that_ was about?” he jerked his head back the way they’d come, “You’re doin’ some kind of investigation?”

“It’s… more like a confirmation,” she said, obviously hesitating to say _that_ much, whatever it meant. Quickly, with a determination that seemed forced, she added, “Shiho always told me that he was one of the worst here for you guys. I’m finally following up on that.”

So the first people she went to were the volleyball team?

Like what were they gonna know? And if they did know, what were they gonna _care_?

More importantly, “Wait, Shiho? You know Suzui- _san_?”

Ann started, and her grin was a little more genuine, “Wow, small world. Yeah, I met her back when we were both starting here. I take it you’ve met?”

“She’s my co-worker,” Ryuji said, a little obviously, he supposed. His mouth felt a little dry, “I… uh, was actually looking for her.”

“She’s on today? Good,” Ann nodded to herself, “I need to talk to her too.”

Of course she was. If she was looking for dirt on Kamoshida, she’d strike gold with Suzui. Maybe more than she knew what to do with.

And she’d find out that _Ryuji’s_ failure was why it had happened to her.

At least she still wouldn’t remember him.

And at least, if he could stop being selfish for a second, someone who might _actually_ be able to do something would know. Ryuji _owed_ it to Suzui to help make this right, “Want to look together?” A moment after he’d asked, it occurred to him, “Or would it be like, _bad_ for you to be seen with me?”

God, that sounded so self-pitying. Couldn’t he have a little dignity?

Ann only scoffed, though, “Who cares?” Ryuji did. He’d gotten enough people hurt to last a lifetime, “My reputation’s hit or miss anyway. I’d rather have you around than protect it, Sakamoto- _san_.”

Ryuji stared at her. He was making a habit of that. But it was so weird that, in addition to everything else, Ann seemed to have managed to grow up into someone he kinda wanted to _be_. Someone who didn’t just suffer through the world’s bullshit, someone who could soar above it.

“If you’re sure, then I’ve got your back…” Ryuji stopped himself short of saying Ann’s name. In her version of things, he didn’t know that yet, “… uh… you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Ann,” she said - he was _definitely_ imagining that searching look on her face, “My name’s Ann Takamäki.”

It was less of a blow to have it confirmed. More like Suzui’s friendly punch, “And I’m Ryuji.” A moment passed. No, that hadn’t rung any bells for her either. That was okay. They had more important things to worry about than ancient history anyway. He gestured for her to lead on, and she turned to lead the way to the entrance hall. Even if Ann had said she didn’t care who saw them, Ryuji kept a couple feet’s distance between the two of them. Just in case, “So why the volleyball team?”

“Hm?”

“You said Suzui- _san_ talked to you about how he’s abusin’ the cleaning staff,” he explained. If he really tried, he could make that phrase sound bloodless, but it still made his nose itch, “But when you were talking to whoever, they were like _stay away from the volleyball team_.”

“Well…” Ann shrugged, saying a little lamely, “Kamoshida coaches the volleyball team. And that’s, like, another bit of authority for him to take advantage of.”

“Yeah, but Ann- Takamäki, sorry.”

“Ann’s fine.”

“Gotcha,” he breathed, tried to put together his thoughts again as delicately as possible, “It’s not exactly the same thing, abusin’ a bunch of Brit students and headbutting some Eleven _thug_. Like, especially if it’s the girls’ team - that shit’d never fly.” 

“It would if they don’t _recognize_ it as abuse,” Ann said, completely undeterred.

Seriously, she was so certain it almost made Ryuji laugh, “I, uh… I think they might notice. He’s not exactly _subtle_.”

Ann looked hard at him - maybe she was rethinking bringing him along. If she was, at least she didn’t say so. Instead she just sighed, “No, he can be.”

Ryuji’s first thought was to get indignant: where did she get off, acting like she knew? Before the thought had fully formed, the answer followed it, and stopped Ryuji in his tracks, “Ann. He didn’t…?”

Even though he couldn’t make himself say it, it still got Ann’s attention. She whirled, “Didn’t what?” When he still couldn’t answer, she stepped in, and Ryuji gave ground before he could think twice, “He didn’t _what_ , Sakamoto- _san_?”

All he had to do was open his big, stupid mouth. He was normally so good at that, but now when it could actually _help_ someone, he was tongue tied? 

Asking her - _really_ asking her - would mean admitting what had happened to Suzui because of him. He still wasn’t ready to do that. Not to Ann.

And why? Because it would hurt his pride? Because she’d think less of him? 

The best Ryuji could make himself ask was, “He didn’t… _try anything_ with you, did he?”

Ann’s brow furrowed, and Ryuji was sure she was going to make him clarify. Mercifully, she relented, gave him a simple, “Yes.” She nodded a little bit, and it was like she was talking to herself again, “He _tried_ anyway. And I’m… I’m pretty sure that he’s tried with other girls.” Mercy could only ever last so long, “Has he?”

The first thing on Ryuji’s lips was the lie that he’d told Mishima: that he didn’t _know_. That there was no way for him to _know_ because it’s not like he had directly _seen_ anything.

The second thing was the truth: of course Kamoshida had, as Ann so tactfully said, _tried_ something with Suzui. Thanks to Ryuji’s weakness, he’d _succeeded_. 

The one would save Ryuji’s pride, the other might save Suzui, and maybe Ann, and maybe who knew how many other girls down the line. It was the easiest choice in the world, and yet he found himself once again hesitating to make it.

Ryuji never got to find out which one he’d say: he was quiet a moment too long, and a shriek rang out from the distance. He turned on a heel, Ann brushing past him, eyes wide.

There was a bell tower to the west of the main entrance hall. A crowd had gathered under it, pointing and gawking. At first, it looked like they were just mesmerized by the bell itself - that’s all Ryuji could see at the top of the building.

But when he looked a few floors down, there she was. She was on the ledge outside a gilded window, her hands clutching the frame for support. They were far enough away, but even from a distance, Ryuji knew. If he was honest with himself, he’d known for a while now that something like this was coming. Now he couldn’t deny it anymore.

Suzui.

**August 7, 2017 A.T.B. - Shiho**

Ashford’s bell tower had been one of the first places to draw Shiho’s eye, the first time she’d come to the academy. It must’ve been something in the way that it stood, proud and regal, picturesque against the rows of trees at its back. None of the students seemed to actually care about it - at the very least, nobody seemed to go in after classes.

Shiho had been up here a few times to polish the bell. It had always felt like a break: the higher you went in Ashford, the more breathtaking the view got. Looking at it from on high, you could imagine, just for a moment, getting to a point where a view like that was _yours_.

That was just a dream, though. A silly, childish dream.

Shiho shivered at the thought: she didn’t get to have those anymore. She was a _woman_ now: time to put childish things behind her.

She’d wanted to go back to the top, but another team was cleaning the bell. A shame, one she should’ve expected. When had she ever been able to rise above?

A breeze whipped through her hair. A floor or two higher, the bell let out five hollow chimes.

Here was as good a place as any.

**August 7, 2017 A.T.B. - Ryuji**

Ryuji ran for the clock tower as if he could ever get there in time. If he just pushed a little harder, maybe he could somehow cheat physics and save her. There was nothing sensical about it: he knew that all it was was another doomed hope. 

But when Shiho hit the ground, Ryuji’s heart plummeted into his stomach all the same. And there was that familiar feeling of failure, as if there’d ever _really_ been something he could do.

It stirred the students who’d crowded around the tower into an uproar. Their voices were an indistinct buzz in Ryuji’s head. Numbly, he picked out a few white uniforms among the sea of yellow and black. Maybe there was someone close to her who cared that she’d jumped outside of the novelty of it. 

A few paces behind him, Ann uttered a breathless, “Shiho…” She was unsteady on her feet, and soon collapsed in on herself. Her hands covered her mouth like she was trying not to vomit, and her eyes were as wide as Ryuji’s felt.

If he’d just been faster, or closer, or if he’d never backed down and _let it happen_ …

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, not sure if it was for Ann or Suzui. His head was still full of the sort of haze that always followed disaster: that feeling of ‘that couldn’t have just happened’ butting heads with the knowledge that it had.

You had to power through that haze yourself: to force your way into practicality. Ryuji must have had had more practice at that, as he heard words coming out of his mouth, “Call an ambulance, tell them what happened. Don’t give them her name if you can help it or they’ll send one from the ghetto.” He had no idea if that was true, but it wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. And Ann was nodding, already pulling out her phone, so he had to pretend he knew what he was doing, “I’ll go see if she’s alright.”

She obviously _wasn’t_ , and he didn’t need to go over there to see that. But it kept Ryuji from saying ‘alive.’ He wasn’t willing to consider otherwise, no matter what was lurking in the back of his mind. 

He didn’t wait for Ann’s response, racing across the field, slowing only when the onlookers got too tightly packed to deftly maneuver around. There were more people trickling in, drawn by the commotion.

The students were tightly packed around her - you’d think the spectacle would be gone now. Ryuji pushed his way through the crowd, that distant buzz now up close and clear.

He wished he still couldn’t understand it. The absolute _crap_ spewing from the mouths of some of the gathered Ashford students made him want to lash out.

“Damn it, I wanted to get a vid of the jump…”

“Surprised this hasn’t happened sooner - don’t Elevens, like, worship suicide or whatever?”

“Nah, this one’s just an attention whore: that fall’s not high enough.”

She wasn’t a person to them. Britannia had told them that they didn’t have to care what happened to her, so they didn’t.

Ryuji should’ve been more careful pushing past people saying things like that. Those were the kind of people who’d pull rank on a filthy Eleven who dared to touch them.

But fuck that and fuck everything about that: they could get out of his way or he’d _make_ them.

They weren’t _all_ like that. Maybe not even most of them. As Ryuji made his way through the crowd, he caught a hushed ‘oh my god’ or a ‘that’s just awful.’ The one didn’t make up for the other, but at least Suzui wasn’t hurt, maybe dying, and surrounded by just _monsters_.

One girl with long ginger hair even seemed to know her. As Ryuji slipped past her, he thought she gasped, “Wait, is that _Shiho_?”

And breaking free to the front row, Ryuji could see that it was, and his heart stopped again. 

Suzui looked like a rag doll someone had dropped. She’d landed, or at least somehow ended up on her back. It bent at an angle that looked wrong. Somehow, her legs were worse.

But her chest still slowly rose, slowly fell. Breath came shallow, faint. But it was there.

The students all at least had the sense to give her space. Cell phones found their way out around here: a couple of photos snapped here and there, and Ryuji could only imagine the different angles of video people were getting of her.

Ryuji wished he could just punch out as many of them as it took to get them to back off if they weren’t going to help. But Suzui was more important than them: he rushed to her side. Kneeling next to her, it occurred to him that he had no idea what to do now that he was there.

He shouted, “Does anyone know first aid?!” And like magic, the people who were just rubbernecking shrunk back.

The ginger girl from before actually stepped up, though. With that shaky determination of someone new to a crisis, she said, “ I know a little bit.” Good enough. Ryuji waved her over, ready to follow her lead, and she kneeled at Suzui’s side. Her voice was gentle in a way that, no matter how grateful Ryuji was for the help, reminded him of how you’d calm a horse, “Shiho- _kun_ , can you hear me? Try not to move, okay?”

Suzui only groaned, which was apparently good, “She’s conscious. Or at least mostly..?” Ginger didn’t seem so sure. As if to compensate, she put some authority into her voice, looking Ryuji sharply in the eyes, “Did you already call for help?” 

“Y-yeah,” he said. She nodded, set to assessing the situation.

“I don’t want to touch the obvious breaks…” she murmured, echoing Ryuji’s own thoughts on the matter. What if they fucked up Suzui’s legs forever? Alternatively, what if they didn’t do anything and _that_ was the wrong answer? Ginger seemed to think the best course of action was to find the smaller breaks and splint those as best they could.

Finding them without hurting her, though, that was the tricky part. Suzui’s face quietly contorted in pain, and Ryuji’s stomach twisted with it. She looked up at him through half lidded eyes, “Sakamoto?”

“Suzui,” he said, “I… I’m here.” Which was _exactly_ what she needed now, right? “I’m sorry.”

“Hurts…” she murmured, trying to turn her head to look at him. By her hiss, that hurt too, so she looked up instead, “I— I couldn’t even…”

“Why??” Ryuji growled despite himself. There were tears welling up in his eyes, which was stupid. They barely knew each other. They’d spoken for the first time _yesterday_. He was trying to make this about _him_ again.

But damn it, she’d seemed so strong when they met. Like someone who occupation hadn’t beaten yet.

Now, here she lay, shattered. Kamoshida had taken her apart overnight.

“I can’t take it anymore…” She let out a single, choked sob, and winced because she’d taken even _that_ from herself, “Just let me go.”

Ryuji’s voice cracked, but that was the only sound he could make. Because what could you say to that? Maybe being nothing started to look better after years of being told you were less than that.

But he couldn’t just accept that. There had to be some spark of hope to cling to. There had to be _something_. He croaked, “Su- Shiho.” It was too intimate, and it tasted wrong on his lips. But wouldn’t it help for her know that she mattered someone? He wanted to reach out to her, but what if he hurt her, or what if his touch reminded her of _him_? Quietly - probably too quietly for her to hear, he said, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Ginger spoke over him, “What’s she saying?”

“It hurts,” he whispered, not _really_ lying.

Most of their job amounted to making sure Suzui was as comfortable as she could be before the paramedics arrived. Ginger guided Ryuji through that. He needed the help: Suzui’d really rattled him. He barely registered when the men in white coveralls rushed past the dwindling crowd of students. He stayed at Suzui side as Ginger got up and explained the situation as best as she could. Ann had apparently been able to leave out that the jumper was an Eleven - it was a matter of minor controversy.

Ginger was lectured that proper protocol would have been to call the ghetto’s hospital. But just because the right i’s hadn’t been dotted and the right t’s hadn’t been crossed didn’t mean that they were going to leave a girl lying there broken.

They loaded her onto a stretcher with practiced efficiency. Numbly, Ryuji found himself following, racing to keep up with them as they moved across Ashford’s fields. He didn’t think he stopped apologizing to her once.

She didn’t have to listen for most of it. They were giving her something via a respirator, and whatever it was must’ve been amazing. She faded fast. So did her pain.

At the gates, one of the paramedics finally stepped in Ryuji’s path, holding up a hand, “English?” Duh. Ryuji nodded anyway. The paramedic was broadly built with a chiseled jaw. He shouldn’t have pissed Ryuji off so much, but standing in his way, all he could think of was a shorter, younger Kamoshida, “If you’re not a blood relation, we can’t bring you with her. I’m sorry, kid.”

Ryuji thought about lying, but a quick look at his pass card would’ve easily sunk him there. So instead he bowed. Not as deeply as a part of him wanted to - he still had useless, foolish pride guiding him, “Please. Please save her.” Since he couldn’t.

The paramedic smiled. It was supposed to be reassuring, but Ryuji was _sure_ he could see mockery behind his eyes, “She’s in good hands.”

Through the gilded bars of Ashford’s gates, Ryuji saw Suzui’s stretcher loaded into an armored ambulance. She might have stirred, but Ryuji also might’ve imagined it.

Maybe he just wanted her to be looking back, in case this was the last time they saw each other.

The siren’s wail faded from earshot, and Ryuji was still standing there, face almost pressed against the bars. 

He’d found Suzui in peril twice in as many days. And both times, he’d failed her.

Carefully, he pressed his head into the metal. It was warm against his head, but not painfully so, “Might as well have put her on that stretcher yourself.”

It wasn’t fair and he knew it. But no matter how he tried, Ryuji couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some point, or maybe even several of them, where if he’d just done things differently, she’d be alright. Hell, _he’d_ be alright.

If he were stronger. If he were braver. If he were just _more_.

A lump was forming in his throat. What, was he going to _cry_ again? Fantastic. Way to contribute, Ryuji. Everyone he went near went up in smoke, but at least he felt bad about it after.

Somewhere nearby, a girl shouted something that sounded like, “We’re going!” It snapped Ryuji back into reality. Left to his own devices, he would crash in on himself forever. Maybe the cry was a blessing, then. 

It was certainly a distraction: someone else who might need help. If Ryuji were _smart_ , he would go the other direction before he made whatever it was worse. And yet there he was, running towards them.

Did he know it was Ann when he heard her? Probably not. At least it was someone who _would_ accept aid, even if it was dubious whether he _could_ give it. Or if she even needed any: she distinctly seemed to be the aggressor, up in a boy’s face. Whatever Ryuji had seen burning in her eyes before was _exploding_ from her now. Glasses boy over here was gonna _die_.

He was that guy from yesterday - it was so weird to see an Eleven in Ashford’s uniform. He didn’t give Ann _too_ much ground: there wasn’t much left for him to give or he’d be inside the steel Academy wall.

She snapped, “We wanted proof: I’d say we have it.”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t go,” Glasses said, holding up his hands placatingly, “But think about it. What’re we going to do when we get there?”

Ann shook her head, tossing that point - whatever it meant - aside, “I don’t _care_. Kamoshida can’t just _get away_ with this. He has to _pay_!” 

Glasses wet his lip. Thank god he was so focused on Ann, or he’d almost certainly have noticed Ryuji eavesdropping. Carefully, he said, “Ann. Remember when I let loose too much and I nearly-”

“This isn’t the same.” 

“No, but it’s close enough,” he put his hands into his pockets, saying, “You’re - understandably - coming at this completely blinded by anger.”

Ann scoffed, “Shiho _deserves_ someone to be angry for her. This whole _fucking_ country is gonna forget she was so much as _alive_ tomorrow!”

“We’re _going_ , Ann,” the boy said, “I just want you to keep it in mind. This can’t _just_ be a roaring rampage of revenge, or we’ll lose.”

She paused, and then her voice was calmer, almost solemn, “It isn’t revenge. It’s justice.” Ryuji almost laughed - so did the boy. Ann huffed, indignantly shouting, “Don’t laugh, it _is_! Just because something’s a cliché…!”

“Nah, I gotcha,” He grinned, taking something out from his pocket. A million thoughts raced through Ryuji’s mind - how had he gotten it past inspections? How long had Ann - _Ann!_ \- been planning something like this? “I’ve got your back. No matter what.”

Ryuji’s eyes flicked to the device, fearing the worst. Some kind of gun, or ‘blow up everything’ type switch.

It was a cell phone.

What.

The boy tapped the screen - and only then noticed Ryuji, “Oh shit, wait-”

“Huh?” Ann turned on a heel to look where her partner in crime was, her eyes nearly popping out of her head when she saw him, “Ryuji!?”

Before Ryuji could explain himself, something he’d never experienced before happened. It was hard to describe, because it kinda felt like a bunch of different things that didn’t go together. He was definitely moving forward - moving so fast, he might’ve been dropped on a speeding train. But he was also sinking, slowly but inexorably, into the earth. But he was also flying?

Ryuji didn’t have time to even question any of it before it ended.

By then, he was much more concerned with the fact that, where there had been vast, empty fields, now there was a castle rising into the clouds.

It didn’t look like anything Ryuji had ever seen before: it was grand and towering, but not sleek in the ways that a Britannian skyline could be. But it _definitely_ wasn’t something that had been here before the war. Something so obviously huge and military would have stood out - and been bombed away.

That could be why something about the air tasted like soot. There had been more here once than stone and walls. Whatever it was had had to be razed to make way for the fortress.

This couldn’t have just _always_ been here. Ryuji would’ve seen it. Plus he was pretty sure that that was the direction he’d come from? It might not’ve been: he’d been pretty disoriented for a second there. But if it wasn’t, then the castle was where the academy wall had been a second ago and _that_ didn’t make sense either.

All that added together to create only one logical conclusion: Ryuji had no idea what was going on.

If he could tear his gaze away from the castle, then he could focus. Get his bearings.

Nope. It turned out the world didn’t make any more sense when you started looking down. In front of him, two figures in masks - after a gawking second, Ryuji realized they were Ann and the Ashford Eleven.

 _He_ looked awesome. It turned out that a black tailcoat and palpable confidence were a good look on anybody. Ryuji was actually a little jealous.

 _She_ was going to be dancing and swaying in Ryuji’s brain for the rest of his life. That catsuit was tighter than a second skin. 

Honestly, they both looked so badass that not even their panic could fully take that away from them.

Ann rushed towards Ryuji, “Uh… this is a dream! None of it’s real, but you should definitely go back that way and wake up!”

Ryuji blinked. The content of that lie was believable - like, the way she was dressed, he could totally buy that this was a very particular kind of dream. 

But _damn_ , that delivery.

The Ashford Eleven must’ve agreed with him. He smacked a gloved hand into his forehead, “Great work, Ann.”

Ryuji found his voice, but it cracked a bit with use, “What the hell?” No, that wasn’t quite strong enough, “What the _fuck_ is all this!?”

“A dream!” Ann insisted.

Plowing past her, Ryuji threw out his arms toward the fortress, “Did… did the school just turn into a castle?! And why’re you dressed like…!” He sputtered, description failed him.

“Right? It’s impossible,” Ann said, “Which means that it’s-”

“How _stupid_ do you think I am, Ann!?” he roared, whirling to face her again.

A moment later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Glasses - no, he didn’t actually have those anymore, smiled cheekily at him, “Hey man. Maybe a little less agitated so we can fill you in?”

“Akira, we can’t just-”

“I don’t think we’re gonna convince him it’s a dream, Ann. Just a hunch,” Akira, apparently, stepped back, “So, uh, you’re in another world, Sakamoto- _san_.”

Ryuji growled, “Seriously, quit jerking me-”

“Well it’s either that or a dream,” Akira said with a shrug, “Take your pick.”

It felt too absurd to be anything except another, better told lie, but like he said, what were the other possibilities? Nothing that didn’t seem just as ridiculous. Ryuji looked again at the palace, and the black sky behind it. It didn’t _look_ like the Settlement. It didn’t look like anything he’d ever seen. He breathed, “Holy shit.”

Akira grinned at Ann, “See? The truth sets you free.”

She might’ve made a face at him, but that mask covered too much for Ryuji to really tell. She said, “Ry- Sakamoto. You have to go back. It’s not safe here.”

“What do you…?” And suddenly, Ryuji saw exactly what she meant. It was just over her shoulder, across a stretch of boiling moat (there really was just too much bizarre happening at once to take it all in at once). Row after row of what looked like miniature knightmare frames surrounded the castle, “Holy-”

“Hm?” Akira followed his gaze, grinning when he realized, “Oh, them. They’re harmless. Y’know, in as much as a big great Britannian army _ever_ is. They’re not even the big issue here.”

“This is Kamoshida’s palace, Sakamoto,” Ann explained, explaining nothing.

“His _what_?”

“It’s like… I guess it’s like a world based on his cognition?” Akira said, and Ryuji must’ve just _actually_ been dumb because that didn’t help either. Seeing that, he tried again, “The way he sees the real world is what this world looks like.”

That _still_ didn’t make sense, “Kamoshida thinks the world is a _castle_?”

“Not the world,” Ann said, “Just Ashford. It’s a metaphor.”

“He thinks of…” Akira stopped for a moment, snapping his fingers a little to try and find the right words, “So Kamoshida has distorted desires.” No shit, “The Metaverse-”

“That’s what this world is called,” Ann added before Ryuji could ask.

“Yeah. The Metaverse is like, this other world that makes physical manifestations of his desires. Stuff he can’t just publicly show in the real world.”

Ryuji had to laugh, “Yeah? What’s that bastard got to hide from? Far as I can tell, Britannia just lets him get away with anything.”

Ann crossed her arms, tapping a finger against herself, “I’ve been thinking of it more as like, perceptions of things. He views Ashford as a metaphorical castle, so the Metaverse makes it a literal one. We can tell you all about it, but right now you need to go.”

Before he could ask why, Akira jumped in to explain, “See, there’s these things called shadows, which are…” he fumbled, and gave an embarrassed chuckle, “Wow, this is hard.”

“Representations of the human soul or something,” Ann said, waving it off, “Like I was saying, we really don’t have-”

“They’re basically monsters. And we fight them with personas, which are-”

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there, _none of this_ makes sense,” Ryuji said.

Akira sighed, suddenly ripping off his mask and shouting, “Arsène!”

Ryuji leaped back in surprise as some kind of blue flare spontaneously burst behind him. Standing in the flame was some kind of red clad demon, looking altogether indignant to have been so casually summoned. Akira jerked a thumb at it, “This is a persona. It’s our spirit of rebellion.”

“Our other selves,” Ann added with reverence that implied she thought that was a coherent thought. It wasn’t, but she could pretend.

Ryuji could only stare at the creature, transfixed. It was just so obviously _powerful_ , in a way you felt more than anything else. ‘Arsène’ returned his gaze, and it was hard to tell what that inhuman face was supposed to show. Curiosity, maybe? He couldn’t shake the feeling of a child staring at a beetle: ‘How interesting you are, and how small.’

The ‘persona’ faded as Akira donned his mask again, but Ryuji could still feel it judging him. Maybe that was what was behind the amusement in Akira’s eyes. God, why shouldn’t he feel contempt? He had _that_ living inside him. That monster. That strength.

His anger wasn’t impotent like Ryuji’s.

He looked at Ann. It was hard not to see that catsuit in a new light: what was she hiding behind that mask? “Y-you both have those?”

She nodded, touching at the edge of her mask. Maybe she thought better of summoning her own, because she didn’t rip it off, “They’re our secret weapon against Kamoshida.”

“But how-”

“What the hell are you two _doing_ out here?!” Ryuji jumped a little at the new voice, a couple of feet above them. It almost blended in with the dark stone of the castle’s outer wall, keeping to the shadows. It looked like it was just standing in midair, which would’ve been par for the course in complete weirdness by now, but if Ryuji looked closer, he was pretty sure it was just balanced on a chipped-out ledge. Someone had drawn a cartoon cat and brought it to life. Putting its stubby hands on its hips, it chided, “Do you even _know_ how loud you’re being? Why’d you call your persona?”

And it was a _talking_ cat. Why not.

Looking his way, it tsked, “Another one…?” the cat crossed its arms, assessing Ryuji, “Wow, Frizz, he looks even dumber than you.”

And it was an _asshole_. Why not.

Ann stepped past him, “Morgana, be nice.” The cat huffed, and she gestured to it, “Ryuji, this is Morgana. Morgana, Ryuji.”

Morgana gave his paw a disinterested lick, patting down his head a little, “Did you guys want a little extra muscle? Because like, this guy looks like he can take a punch, but…”

Of itself, Ryuji’s fist curled. He’d have liked to see this thing come down to his level and say that. They could see how far he could punt it.

“I mean, he _can_ ,” Akira said, “This is Sakamoto. From the dungeon?”

Dungeon?

Morgana’s ears flicked to attention, and he hopped down to them. Grinning in triumph, he said, “Oh, so you _did_ get confirmation from the real world. Nice work, Lady Ann!”

She grimaced. Ryuji thought of the two of them, staring in horror at Suzui on the bell tower. This thing had no idea how _much_ ‘confirmation’ she’d gotten, “Yeah. But Morgana-”

“Of course, what I _don’t_ get is why he’s _here_ ,” Morgana said, “I mean, any good band of thieves needs a couple more members than we’ve got, but c’mon. Standards. This guy doesn’t look like he’s all that-”

Ryuji spat, “Hey cat, you wanna try _not_ talking about me like I’m not here?”

“Sure, you wanna try keeping your voice down?” it shot back, “And I’m _not_ a cat!”

“Yeah, he hates it when you call him that,” Akira added helpfully, though his smirk added, ‘So you should totally call him that.’

The thing ignored him. It swaggered up to Ryuji - a little ridiculously, given it barely came up to his knee. In tones that Ryuji had heard during a million random searches from a million soldiers, it said, “Look. I’m our idea man. Ann’s got insider knowledge about Kamoshida. Akira’s our dumb muscle.” Akira must’ve been used to that sort of crap enough that it bounced off him with a laugh. But Ryuji was starting to see red, “So what do _you_ want to contribute?”

“You guys are trying to take down Kamoshida, right?” Ryuji shouted. Everybody tensed just a little, looking around. Like _his_ shouting was somehow gonna be what gave them away, “I want in on that. That bastard deserves anything that’s coming to him.”

“Look, kid,” Morgana said. He was _trying_ for sympathy, but all Ryuji could hear was even more condescension, “Anybody’d want the chance to hit back, but we-”

“This isn’t about _me_!” It had exploded out of him before he had the chance to tone it down, and Ryuji felt his face flush with embarrassment. Someone had definitely heard that. But he had to press on, “What he did to Suzui… I need to make that right.”

And now he was begging cats for second chances. Even in an upside down magic world, there was always lower to sink.

At least it didn’t immediately shoot him down. Instead, a hush fell over the group. Akira crossed his arms, opened his mouth. Whatever he’d been going to say had died in his throat, and he just shook his head and walked away from them. Whatever: Ryuji didn’t need his _approval_.

But he _did_ need Ann’s. It was stupid and selfish, and god, what a deluded idiot he must’ve been to _still_ be clinging to what a girl he hadn’t seen in seven years thought of him. Even so, it was still her that he looked at, and pleaded, “Please, Ann. Let me help.”

“Is Shiho alive?”

It hit like a punch to the gut. He should’ve seen it coming, but it still knocked the wind out of him. He nodded, “They wouldn’t let me go with her. Or I’d be at the hospital right now.”

“Then go home, Ryuji,” it was gentle - trying not to break the unstable idiot in front of her - but firm, “You can’t help me here.”

“Yes I can!” he shouted, not caring that it was too loud or too childish, “I might not have superpowers like you guys, but I can-”

“No, you _can’t_ ,” Ann said, “You might think you’re strong enough to handle whatever’s in there, but you’re _not_. And I can’t be looking over my shoulder to make sure you’re alright the whole time.”

Ah, so that’s what it came down to: he’d just be in the way.

There was nothing he could say to that: she was right. All he could do was stare at her, stunned. Ann gulped - she was _still_ trying to spare his feelings. What kind of wreck did he look like to her? “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Go home. Make sure Shiho’s okay. I can handle Kamoshida.”

She left before he could even begin to mount whatever pathetic defense he had against that. With him beaten, Ann closed her eyes and breathed. She must’ve been relieved that she could finally focus on something _important_. When she opened them again, she was looking past him, to the task at hand, “Morgana, Akira. Come on: we’ve wasted enough time out here.”

“Right!” the cat yelped, following after her as she started climbing. They both practically flowed up the wall, “Lady Ann, what exactly happened in the real world?”

It _really_ had no idea what a story it was in for. At least Ryuji wouldn’t have to relive it again. He clenched his fists as their voices faded, stared at his feet. Useless. Just a waste of their time.

Akira sidled his way - Ryuji had actually thought he’d already left. Hands on his hips, he looked up the wall after where the other two had gone. He clicked his tongue, “Hey. She doesn’t mean that you’re…”

Ryuji laughed bitterly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Whatever. Beats getting my face smashed in again, right?”

Akira was decent enough to give that a token smile, “Yeah.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his head, “Look, I just know what it’s like to-”

“Forget it, it’s fine,” Ryuji said. He could put up with a lot, but he wasn’t gonna stand here and have the one Eleven who went to Ashford as a _student_ tell him _he knew what it was like_. He forced a smile, “Go knock ‘em dead.”

He hesitated just a moment longer, but nodded. Seriously, Ryuji was _fine_. Couldn’t this guy just leave well enough alone? At least Akira stopped himself from patting his shoulder, “Stay strong, man.”

Couldn’t _stay_ what he’d never _been_.

“Thanks.”

There was a part of him that meant it. There was a part of him that even appreciated someone trying to be understanding like that. They all put up with so much shit from occupation every day. Often it was too much for anyone to ever stop and say ‘hey, I know you’re going through it too.’ He should’ve been grateful that someone had wasted their time on him.

But as Akira faded from view, all Ryuji could do was wish that he was climbing that wall with them.

Why not just go after them? He might not’ve had any kind of magical representative metaphor powers or whatever, but Ryuji was more in shape than either of them or their cat. It wouldn’t be too hard to scale a wall and catch up.

But what about when he did?

‘ _What part of_ I don’t need your help _do you not get_?’

‘ _Seriously, guy, learn to take a hint_.’

‘ _You_ had _a chance to help. You blew it_.’

Ryuji tried to shake those thoughts out of his head. He wanted to scream in frustration, but _that_ might’ve reached Ann and her friends and stopped them from doing what was actually _important_ here. So he settled for a low growl in the back of his throat.

God, _when_ was he going to stop standing around and feeling sorry for himself!?

Suzui deserved better from him. He’d failed to protect her, failed to support her after what happened, failed and failed and _now_ he was just going to _accept_ that he couldn’t go after the person who’d hurt her? What, because a girl in tights and her _cat_ had said no? That was all it took for Ryuji to back off and let the professionals handle things?

Fuck. That.

Ryuji glowered up at where the three of them had all disappeared. He couldn’t quite see where that even was, these walls were so scarred. That, and it was hard to tell what was supposed to be an entrance and what was some kind architectural flourish. 

He _could_ try just going up their way anyway. But that left a bad taste in his mouth. It was too much like being the yappy dog, desperate to follow after Master. He’d find his own way in. 

Of course, the question running through Ryuji’s mind as he crept around the castle was ‘and do what?’ They were right about one thing, he didn’t get this Metaverse stuff or whatever it was called. Still, it didn’t really seem like Ann’s team had much of a plan of attack either. Just go in and wreck the joint until they got to Kamoshida. Ryuji could do that.

The grounds were a lot busier than Ashford’s had been. It wasn’t that they were filled with people so much as things. Rose bushes were popular, but there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to where they were placed - a couple of times they were just right in the middle of the path for no reason. There were a ton of statues draped in vines. If you looked long enough at any of them, you found Kamoshida somewhere on them. There were all kinds of busts of all kinds of sizes, and full sculptures which caught him in the middle of some feat of athleticism.

One actually stopped Ryuji in his tracks. Kamoshida stood on the pedestal, a stone cape seeming to flow in the wind. His arms were wrapped around a girl, holding her aloft. Her torso flailed back above him, her arms thrown out in shock. She had no face, no real identifying features except maybe the ponytail.

Ryuji wished he could just smash it.

“Focus,” he muttered to himself, leaving the awful thing behind him. Near it, there was a fountain. It was more grotesque vanity: a trio of Kamoshidas, arms flexing behind their heads and hips thrust forward, spurt water into the basin. As he passed it, Ryuji thought he saw a face in the pool. The implication was too gross for him to take a closer look. 

Besides, that wasn’t what was most important about the fountain. That was that it was set before a series of massive stone doors. Bingo.

Ryuji approached, feeling just a little dwarfed by the things: he barely came up to halfway. How was he even supposed to get one of these open? He could _reach_ the handle, but could he actually pull it?

Would it be ridiculous to knock?

Yeah, but they were playing fast and loose with what made sense by this point. Tentatively, Ryuji reached out, rapping a couple of times. For good measure, he called out, “Hey! Anyone home?”

It took a couple of minutes. In that time, Ryuji went through maybe a dozen plans of attack: whoever answered, he could maybe just tackle? No, if they were anything like the demon Akira had called, that wasn’t gonna get him too far. He’d need a weapon or something - there was a stack of wooden boxes, maybe there’d be something in those? They looked precarious, though.

Besides, it was kinda starting to look like a moot point. He was pretty sure nobody was coming. The handles were starting to look a lot friendlier: he crouched, leaped up. Clung for dear life.

Ryuji’s feet didn’t quite touch the ground, even if he stood on tiptoes. He cursed and dropped down, glaring at the thing. It was a stupid door. He could get past a _door_!

It groaned as if in response, scraping against the cobbles of the courtyard as it was pushed open, little by little.

A masked figure in armor peaked around its corner. It stooped like some kind of gorilla knight. It looked Ryuji up and down, calling out, “What business do you have with King Kamoshida?”

Ryuji didn’t know if he was more creeped out by its echoey dual voices or by the title Kamoshida had apparently given himself. Seriously, how did a friggin’ _gym teacher_ get that kind of ego?

“Answer the question, intruder!” the guard barked, “His Majesty’s time is precious. He has many benevolent gifts to bestow on his subjects.”

No time to get excited about what _that_ could mean. Thinking quickly but inefficiently, Ryuji stammered, “I’m… uh… I’m cleaning staff, sir!” Actually, yeah, that worked. He had the uniform and everything. Pulling at his hat, as if it would somehow prove the truth of what he was saying, he added, “I’m new here, and I guess I got locked out and… and…” he paused, “And you know what, fuck this.”

He kicked the thing square in the chest as hard as he could. It toppled back - probably more from surprise than Ryuji’s own strength, it weighed a _ton_. 

What crazy luck that Ryuji’s momentum carried him through the crevice it had opened up. And what a _miracle_ that it had been alone, now that he noticed its sword and shield that were each about as big as him. If it hadn’t been, he’d be getting stabbed to death instead of staring dumbfounded at where it lay on its back, scrambling like a turtle on its back.

He actually laughed. Some god of revenge or demon or whatever had the weirdest sense of humor. Then he turned tail and ran down the first hall he saw. Ryuji did _not_ want to be here when that thing got up.

Looking over his shoulder to see if it was following him was a dumb idea, but there he went anyway. It hobbled to its feet, bellowing, “Intruder at the gates! Everyone, don’t let it escape!”

Ryuji would probably be better off not thinking of how many guards ‘everyone’ could be. He’d just focus on the path ahead, find somewhere quiet to stop and figure out what step two was.

These hallways seemed to go on forever, and that dark little voice in Ryuji’s head caught up to him just enough to warn that he was just getting himself lost. He pumped his legs harder, tried to reach that bliss where he didn’t have to think about such things.

Whatever trinkets and baubles Kamoshida had stashed in this place were a gold blur around Ryuji. His heart started going like a jackhammer once it clicked what he’d just done. The guard had just folded once he fought back - god, why had he never tried that in the real world?

Well, because Britannians travelled in packs and carried guns. Even that thought, though, couldn’t keep the smile off Ryuji’s face. This might actually be pretty easy!

There was a door at the end of the latest hallway. Ryuji sized it up, picked up speed. That bastard would have to keep a sturdier castle together to stop _him_!

He slammed into it, and the door opened with a _bang_. Ryuji whooped into the silence that followed. Cool sweat ran down his forehead.

When he opened his eyes, his blood ran just as cold.

He was in one of those expansive entrance halls that Britannians liked, the ones that could fit his mom’s apartment a couple dozen times. It was lit by several chandeliers, the light expanding and retracting as they bobbed up and down.

There were more of the guards. So many more - god, he’d been lucky to briefly inconvenience _one_ with a sucker punch. They all lined up to face a pair of curving stairways. Those had yet _more_ guards, on and on until you reached the top. Then, _him_.

He should have looked ridiculous. Crown or no crown, cape or no cape, when you got down to it, he was a hairy, half-naked, old man. Ryuji should’ve been _laughing_ when he tossed that cape back over a shoulder, looking curiously down at him.

But when Kamoshida grinned, Ryuji’s heart stopped, “Well now. Guards, what’s this slave doing out of its cell?”

His first _coward’s_ instinct was to just run back the way he came. Find somewhere else. Get him alone. Because going one on one with that bastard had work _so well_ before. But the doorway filled up - the guard he’d knocked over had caught up, and brought reinforcements. No way out that way, then. The others’ armor clamored as they moved to circle around him. 

Kamoshida cracked his neck before hopping down from on high. His fall seemed to slow just a little before he touched the ground, his cape fluttering around him. Slowly, he moved towards Ryuji. Traitors and cowards, his feet edged back, only for a guard to push him staggering forward. 

He stood proud and tall over Ryuji, even now. He was just back: this was just yesterday, all over again. Even in a magical world, what was he going to do? How did you stop someone so far _above_ you?

“Look at me,” Kamoshida commanded. Ryuji did instantly - he at least had pride enough to try and force some hatred into his eyes along with fear. Kamoshida’s own only held an amused indifference. His focus was on the bandages, “I do good work. You here for seconds?”

Fuck it. He was surrounded, probably gonna die anyway. He could at least try and do it with his head held high, “Bet its real easy sayin’ shit like that with an army backin’ you up.”

Kamoshida’s laugh echoed off the open ceiling, “Typical sore loser Eleven. If you get your shit kicked in, there’s always an excuse, right? And if you don’t get hurt because you groveled enough, there’s an excuse for _that_ too!” He put a hand on Ryuji’s shoulder, patting almost affectionately, “But you never find a way to just _win_.”

“And is that what you did? You _won_!?” Ryuji shouted, swatting the hand away. Why, even now with nothing to lose, was he not just lashing out? Did he _still_ think there was something worse that could happen than what was to come? Had Britannia really trained him that well?

It was like his mouth was the only thing with any fight left in it: “How many boots did you have to lick to get _that_!?”

Instantly, all the humor drained from Kamoshida’s face - the shine in his eyes seemed to dim. This was as close to a win as Ryuji was going to get. It wouldn’t be close enough. Cracking his knuckles, Kamoshida said, “Let me show you.”

Then he smacked him with a hard forearm. Ears ringing, Ryuji stumbled back, and one of the guards caught him, grabbing onto his arm. Another took the other one, and they held him in place as Kamoshida shook the hand he’d struck with, “Got a hard head there, Eleven. I’ll enjoy busting it open. Before that, though…” the guards forced him to his knees, and now it was Kamoshida’s foot on his shoulder, “Why don’t I give you a kick for every bit of humiliating _bullshit_ it took to get me here? Show you how a man has to suffer to become a king?”

Ryuji spat a glob of red, hissing, “Bring it, asshole.”

Kamoshida hissed his fury, and began with a kick upside the head that sent Ryuji sprawling to the floor. It actually dazed him enough that he barely felt the first hit that followed, or the second. Worse luck, he was back in time for the third.

Outside of isolated incidents like yesterday, most of Ryuji’s experience taking a hit came from before the Invasion. That was certainly the last time he’d been _beaten_. If he could take it then, he could take it now.

It turned out that it was no better now than he remembered it being. Kamoshida created a sort of metronome of his foot against Ryuji’s chest and stomach. Old habit had brought his arms up to protect his face, however pointless that would ultimately be.

Darkness was closing in. He couldn’t be dying already, could he? Wouldn’t he feel farther away from what was happening to him if he was? Maybe it was just Kamoshida’s men crowding around him, enjoying the show.

He was giving them a pretty good one. Some of the sounds he made he hated because they made him sound like a child. Others because they made him sound like an animal.

_Should’ve at least died on your feet like a man._

Then at once, light - almost blinding even if it was just the hall’s mood lighting. The metronome of blows stopped as Kamoshida and his guards suddenly scattered. Ryuji tried to sit up. The attempt hurt.

But at least he got to see Ann dropping down from the chandeliers above. A whip in her hand, blind fury in her eyes - she was more ready for this than Ryuji had ever been.

She shrieked, “ _Carmen_!” and seemed to explode in flames. Guards cried out in shock and awe as they were engulfed. They dissipated before she hit the ground, but burst to life again with every crack of her whip. When she’d cleared the space around where she’d landed, all that remained was ash and smoke. Ann held out her whip, coiled around and around her arm, and roared, “Kamoshida!!!”

If Ryuji could just find half the power, half the hate that was in her eyes…

Kamoshida grimaced, “Stupid bitch can’t take a hint- _fine_!” He waved a hand in what could’ve been a dismissive gesture, but all of that confidence he’d had when it was him, his army, and Ryuji was gone, “Kill them all!”

Guards began sinking into the ground, bursting back out as all kinds of freakish monsters. None of them seemed to faze Ann: she roared and lunged from one to the next like a tiger. The ghostly image of a woman flared beside her, dancing and swirling through the battlefield.

By the time Ryuji had so much as unpeeled himself from the floor, she’d burned through so many of them. But there were always more whenever her flames died down.

She wasn’t alone. Akira hit the ground a few feet from Ryuji, and as soon as he did, he tore into the crowd of Kamoshida’s men. His knife twirled, and his demon burst from him. If Ann was an inferno, he was… maybe a meat grinder.

The cat was last. It waddled over to where Ryuji stood, dumbstruck and wowed, shaking its head, “God… both of them this time?” It looked up at him, “Hey, you’re breathing? Then hang tight, this one might be a little tricky.”

Then it pounced, and damn if it wasn’t tearing through the other side of the room before Ryuji could blink. _Of course_ it had power here too.

Standing uselessly on the sidelines, the only reason Ryuji was alive was probably that he was close enough to Ann. The explosions of her power kept any of the demons and spirits soaring through the air from getting too close. It gave him time to reflect.

They made a hell of a picture: each of them shining like a god in their own way. Ryuji couldn’t even _imagine_ what it must’ve been like. They were untouchable. Invincible.

And if the cat was right, they _still_ might not win this.

Ann and Akira were burning bright, but fast. The cat kept yelling warnings at them, but both must’ve been too furious to care, or just too lost in the throes of battle. They weren’t quite slowing down, but they couldn’t do this _forever_.

Ryuji had no idea when Kamoshida had gotten back to the top of his staircase, but there he was. His ego had come back full force: there was only a fragment of the nerves he’d accidentally shown when Ann’s team had first arrived. Behind him there was a knight in glittering gold armor, already beginning to jerk and convulse like these monsters did before they transformed.

Slowly, Kamoshida clapped his hands over the din of battle, “Not bad, not bad! About time we got the whole gang together!” The creature at his back burst open in a shower of smoke and ooze, “Saves me the trouble of hunting you all down!”

What emerged this time was some kind of massive, bearded purple demon. Cruel bull’s horns curved upward, its wide forehead and bulbous nose sloped down. It shouldn’t have been intimidating: its massive arms were dwarfed by its gut, and the throne on which it sat was cracked and porcelain. Maybe it was just the size of it, or the bored look in its bulging yellow eyes.

From below, Kamoshida _thunked_ his fist against the creature’s seat, “Well, what are you waiting for? Kill them all!” It groaned heavily, rolling its eyes as it snapped its fingers.

For just a moment, the floor began to sparkle beneath Akira: then a spike of ice burst forth. He barely jumped back in time, pulled by Arsène. The icicle shook, then suddenly jutted off from itself. These splinters branched off further and further, seeming to chase after Akira.

Similar icicles spiked out for Ann and Morgana. The creature rested its chin on its hand, croaking, “You may as well give in. King Kamoshida’s reach only grows: you cannot run from it forever.”

“Who’s running!?” Ann shouted, calling out to Carmen again. The spirit manifested, raising a hand skyward. Flame popped beneath Ann’s feet, launching her at the creature. Her whip wreathed itself in fire, and for a second Ryuji was sure she was about to end it all.

Then with an irritated sigh, the demon simply swatted her away. She cried out - Ryuji could practically feel her back smashing into a balcony pillar before she hit the ground.

Akira looked her way a second too long, calling out, “Ann!” at the same time as Morgana. The ice caught them: Akira got the worst of it, crying out in pain as it covered his face and knife-arm. It seemed to steam, and his lip twitched. The cat’s leg was similarly covered by frost. It yelped quietly to itself, slowed to a crawl.

They’d been a brief reprieve for Ryuji, but _this_ was where they met their match. _This_ was where they all were going to die.

And through it all, all _he'd_ been able to do was stand quietly and hope it all turned out alright.

Ryuji couldn’t bear it. He fell to his knees, barely managed a whisper, “Please… everyone just go. I’m not… I’m not worth…”

Kamoshida cackled - there was almost a delirious relief to it, “Hey, look at that! He finally gets it!” He rushed to the railing, putting a hand to his ear, “A little louder, Eleven, I don’t think they heard you!”

“Ann, _just run_!” Ryuji shouted. For once, he was neither too proud to just do as commanded, nor too much of a coward to face the consequences and do what was right. It was a great note to go out on.

Swishing his hands through the air like a conductor, Kamoshida said, “Ah, music to my ears! But it’s a bit late to learn your place now, isn’t it? You already asked them all to die for your dumbass choices, can’t exactly take that back.”

He growled, “No! I didn’t-”

“Oof - it’s just like in the real world: pick a fight you can’t win, and hope that someone’ll do what it takes to get you out of having to own it,” he grinned, crossing his arms, “It’s just like Suzui, isn’t it?”

Something tightened in Ryuji’s stomach, “No. No, it’s… I didn’t…”

“So now…” Kamoshida extended his hands, encompassing Ann and her team. They were worn out, reeling, “You get to watch _more_ people die because they decided to protect _trash_ like you!”

Something snapped. Ryuji staggered back to his feet, “You just… you think you’re so fucking tough, don’t you.” He clenched his fists, speaking as much to his own doubt as to Kamoshida. It had held him back for far too long, and then tortured him for obeying it, “It’s true. I… I couldn’t help Suzui. I couldn’t help Mom. I can’t even help myself half the time.” He was shaking. Was that fear or anticipation? “But I’m _done_ letting scum like you do whatever they want! You want me to fight back? Fine! _I’ll fight back_!”

**“You made me wait quite a while.”**

Ryuji doubled over on himself, still shaking. Something was horribly, catastrophically wrong. Every fiber of his being screamed it, silenced by wave after wave of something unidentifiable but inexorable coming from his head.

**“The world asks so much from the weak. How much longer will you lay down and take it?”**

There it was: it was pain. Pure, familiar, continuous, infinite pain. There was no lull between waves: it never dulled, only amplified with each passing moment. Ryuji screamed out in protest: he could take it - he _could_! But what he couldn’t take was how it bent him low again.

**“You seek power, correct? Then let us form a pact.”**

His body pulsed and seized under the weight of itself. Whatever power was being offered was too much and he wanted to scream that.

**“Your name is disgraced. Your pride has been stolen. What more can they take?”**

But at the same time, it wasn’t enough. It could _never_ be enough. The same parts of him that writhed and blubbered and begged for release also roared ‘ _more_.’ Let it hurt as much as it needed to, let it kill him a hundred thousand times, but let him have more power!

**“Hoist the black flag, and wreak havoc on this world’s rot!”**

In some other world, someone weak shouted, “Not again! Stop him!” And from the vast current of Ryuji’s world of strength and agony, thunder roared.

**“I am thou, thou art I.”**

The pain wasn’t dying away. The pain would _never_ die away. But it was becoming manageable. He could stand again - he _had_ to stand again. Too much of his life had been wasted on bowing.

**“There is no turning back…”**

It was as if a god’s hands were guiding his own. Together they reached for his face, where they found the source of his weakness. Hard edges, like bone. A dead man’s face, slowly suffocating him. He would breathe again, he would be _free_ again!

**The skull of rebellion is your flag henceforth!”**

“Captain Kidd!”

Ryuji’s hands found purchase, and he tore with all his might.

What did he care about the blood that flowed, or the pain that sang out when the mask came loose? Ryuji had lived through both before, and he’d never had a reward like this.

The blue flame that burst from him was absolute fucking rapture. It kissed his wounds, focused his mind, whispered purpose in his ears. He burned for only a moment, and that moment was pure vindication.

He’d looked at this kind of power radiating from Akira, or from Ann, and he’d been too awed by it to even be jealous. Now it surged through him. And from the newly forged _other_ him.

Captain Kidd stood astride a black galleon with a cocky, sharklike grin painted on the front. A bicorn hat with a jolly roger sigil sat upon his exposed skull, one good eye wild with red, orange, and yellow irises. A blue tunic with golden tassels covered his skeletal torso, and was in turn covered by a cape slung over his shoulders by two belts. They each held a curved cutlass under his chin, and the cape itself ended in two long flowing tails, tattered, torn, and burned. One hand was clawed, grasping. The other ended in a cannon, smoking, recently fired. Ready to fire again.

Ryuji’s uniform had changed to match: gone were the straight lines and antiseptic whites. Now he wore a black jacket with matching pants, some kind of metal pads over his elbows and knees. His collar popped up for miles - his red ascot was probably the only thing tying it down. Along his back, the jacket had something that felt like a spine.

Good. He’d been meaning to get one of those.

He still felt the bandages on his face, and the twitch in his nose when he looked at Kamoshida (who was absolutely, wonderfully _red_ with fury). Some things maybe you couldn’t even fix with magic.

But holy hell, the way the others all looked at him now. He grinned, shouldered the iron pipe that had appeared in his hand, “Wassup. Ready to tear this shit up?”

Akira managed a smirk of his own around the ice that covered him, “Can you get us a second or two?”

Ryuji laughed, “Man, I was gonna ask if I couldn’t get a one on one.”

“Don’t get cocky!” Morgana shrieked, “That’s half the trouble with you idiots!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Akira muttered, picking up the cat by the scruff of his neck. He yowled indignantly, but offered no more complaints as the two of them hurried to check on Ann.

Whatever the cat’s advice, Ryuji was feeling pretty good about himself right about now. He tapped the pipe against his shoulder, trying on swagger for his walk. Holy shit, it was _amazing_.

Kamoshida tensed, “Every fucking ti- _Belphegor_!”

The demon groaned, and the ground shone beneath Ryuji. He shrugged, giving his weapon a spin before he struck the ice with it. Captain Kidd pumped his fist, and lightning sparked from the hit. The ice shattered, “That shit’s actually pretty easy to deal with when you know it’s coming.”

Belphegor let out a low, gurgling growl, waving his hand. A trail of icicles spawned in his wake, flying like bullets for Ryuji. Kidd sprang into action, taking aim with his gun arm to knock them out of the sky. He left one: Ryuji hit it back like a grand slam, which it might as well have been. The only thing that would’ve made it better was if it hit Kamoshida, “Hey big man! Y’ever gonna fight me for real or just hide behind your shitter monster?”

Kamoshida had moved past red: he was turning purple now. What had been a dismissive wave once was a frantic one now, “I don’t have to answer to an Eleven. Guards! Kill them all!”

Ryuji grinned, “That’s what I thought.”

The other monster guards started in on him around then. His persona soared far above the fray, dropping shells of electricity like bombs. Usually, it was all the cover that Ryuji needed, but when that failed, Kidd would vanish and reappear by his side to deal with the problem up close.

Ryuji didn’t have much of a battle plan of his own outside of ‘keep swinging until they stop moving,’ but that didn’t seem to matter. He was pretty sure that Kidd was paying special attention to ones that he’d already hit - like he’d stuck a lightning rod in them. There wasn’t exactly time to stop and check, and hey, it was working.

He’d suspected it all along: a little strength, a little courage, and even _one_ person in his corner, and it didn’t matter who you set up in his way. Ryuji would knock them all down.

Soon, Akira and Morgana rejoined the fray, slicing through two bat winged creatures that had gotten too close. Akira ducked down, and Ryuji swung over him to splatter a third, “Nice job. Finish this up?”

“Yeah. Give me a boost.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

Ryuji grinned, “No idea!”

It startled a laugh out of Akira, and with a flourish of his mask, Arsène sprang back into being. There was no terror in looking up at him now: Ryuji was looking at an equal.

An equal who grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and flung him, whooping, into the sky. He called on Captain Kidd, who gave him a good spin before launching him headlong at Belphegor. For just a moment, all there was was the wind in Ryuji’s face, the pounding in his chest, and electricity in his veins. _This_ was what freedom felt like.

He called on Kidd again just before he smashed into Belphegor’s face: this time, he emerged in a blinding shower of sparks in the demon’s eyes. Belphegor growled his protest, swatting impotently in front of himself, narrowly missing Ryuji. He bounced harmlessly off the creature’s face: it was inconvenienced, not beaten.

And that didn’t matter, because now Ryuji wasn’t alone.

Fire danced around her as Ann launched herself, screaming like a missile, at the creature. Belphegor opened its eyes just in time for her heel to bury itself between them. A pillar of flame roared from the blow, spreading to engulf the creature’s massive body. It gurgled, “King… Kamoshida…?” and its arm fell limp. Black smoke rose from its dissipating form. Ryuji hit the ground just as the last of it drifted away.

The room was finally quiet - the battle was over. As adrenaline faded, ache and exertion caught up with Ryuji. The exhaustion - of everything today, really - was unreal.

“Ryuji!”

Ann. Maybe he had a _little_ more in the tank. He sat up, unable to keep the grin off his face. His legs protested as he pulled himself to his feet: they could deal, “How was that? Pretty effin’ cool, righ-”

He let out the most unmanly yelp he’d ever heard as Ann pushed him right back down. For a second, Ryuji thought she was gonna go full angry-lion-fire-girl on him, but the squeak in her shout was more indignant than anything else, “You… you _idiot_! I told you to go home!!!”

Oh what the hell. Ryuji started to get up, but thought better of it. Sitting was more comfortable, and she was liable to knock him over again, “What the…!? It worked out, didn’t it!?” Before she could point out the obvious flaws in that logic, he added, “And you never _told me_ how to get back!”

Ann sputtered, “That’s… not…!” which only proved that he was right. She threw up her hands, “I _can’t_ with you. You’re still such a _kid_.”

“He’s right though,” Strolling up the stairway, Akira called out, “We _did_ forget that part, didn’t we?” He winked, gave Ryuji a thumbs up, “Good thing.”

Ryuji returned it. This guy was alright.

Ann made a disgusted noise, “Oh god, there’s _two of you_ now.”

Before either of them could say something cheeky, Morgana came bounding up to join them, “Three persona users!? In _three_ days!?”

Leaning back on the railing, Akira pulled idly at his gloves, “We should regroup. This changes things, right?” He jerked his thumb at Ryuji, “Awakening to a persona takes a lot out of you.”

Ann set her jaw, but nodded, “I… used more than I should’ve on that fight too. I lost my head: I’m sorry.”

Ryuji waved it off, “Apology acc-”

“Not for you!” she shouted.

Morgana visibly considered that, his lips (as much as they _were_ lips) pursing as he shook his head back and forth. Finally, he sighed, “This _will_ be a lot easier with four people than three. Every toolset needs a hammer, after all.” Now what did _that_ mean? “Akira, help me clear a path out of here. Lady Ann, you and New Guy bring up the rear.”

“ _What’ll_ be easier?” she asked.

Morgana grinned, “Well, we’ll want to find somewhere we can talk about that without getting interrupted. But you wanted to know what we can do to the Kamoshida in the real world from inside the Metaverse, right?”

Ryuji blinked. He didn’t trust himself to breathe, “Is… is there really something we can do?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s why I _said_ it,” Morgana shook his head, starting down the stairs, “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Lady Ann…”

As he and Akira headed out, bantering and sniping at each other, Ryuji could only stare after them. For all the monsters and demons, all the magic and fantasy, _this_ was the most surreal thing to him. 

There might be something he could _do_.

That was so simple, and yet it seemed like so much more than he was worthy of. But there it was.

By her breathless voice, Ann was thinking something similar, “C’mon.” She extended a hand, and Ryuji didn’t even think before taking it, “I’ll show you how to get home.”

Seven years of bullshit might _actually_ have built up to something after all. All he wished was that it could’ve happened one day sooner. He couldn’t make what happened to Suzui _right_ again. 

But he could keep anything like that from happening again. And he could be her vengeance.

Because now he could fly.


	8. Setup

**August 7, 2017 A.T.B. - Akira**

“Wait, you could leave the Metaverse this whole time?”

“Apparently?” Somehow it was even weirder talking to Morgana in the real world. That he could speak was far from the strangest thing about him when they were in the Metaverse. Now he was a real cat, completely normal except that he was also a brat, “We didn’t try it: sloppy planning.”

“What, you’re gonna blame the dumb muscle for that?” Akira clicked his tongue, “C’mon, ‘brain.’ We’re counting on you in there.”

Ann coughed meaningfully before they could get into it any further. Akira still counted it as a win: the cat only let himself get cowed so easily when he didn’t have a comeback.

Once they got back to Ashford, the first thing they’d done was book it for the dance hall. It was a bit of a long walk: Akira was starting to see why no one ever came by the walls, they were so far out of the way of everything else. Thankfully, Sakamoto’s injuries in the Metaverse had mostly stayed behind there. It had been a miracle he could _stand_ , even with his persona, after the beating he’d taken. Back at the academy, it would’ve been a slightly odd sight for him to be dragged across campus by a couple of students.

As Morgana explained, anything that happened to them in a palace was mostly in their heads. They _believed_ that they were getting hurt, they had a cognition of pain and injury, so the Metaverse made it real for them. When they left, all that was left was how their minds had reacted: mixed exhaustion and adrenaline.

“No, but Kamoshida really _was_ kickin’ the shit out of me,” Sakamoto protested, “Like, I was _there_.”

“Right, and _because_ you saw it and perceived it happening, it created a cognition for you of the attack. You _believed_ it would hurt, so it did.”

“That… makes literally no sense.”

Morgana sighed, “Ann, Akira, did you get it?” Ann shrugged, Akira waggled a hand. The cat deflated a little, “Good enough.”

“… so if we started thinking ‘this won’t hurt me’ when we’re in the Metaverse, would it just not?” Akira asked.

It was a good question, apparently: it stopped Morgana in his tracks, “That… might actually work.” He kept walking, hemming and hawing over the idea, “I’m not sure. You’d have to _really_ convince yourself.”

“I can be pretty persuasive,” Akira said.

“Yeah, maybe stick to dodging for now.” Fair enough. Seizing on that momentum, the cat added, “For that matter, we need to talk strategy at some point. You guys _can’t_ just run screaming into every fight. It’s a persona, not an ‘I win’ button.”

“Speak for yourself,” Akira actually had to look back to make sure that was really Ann who’d said that. It was just a bit too cheeky, a bit too cocky for her. She grinned impishly, “It’s worked out pretty well so far.”

“ _No_ ,” Morgana insisted, stopping to face her. Ooh, this must’ve been big: he was actually gonna mouth off to _Ann_ about it, “Lady Ann, we keep getting in over our heads because _you guys_ keep overdoing it. We’re not gonna have someone to miraculously awaken to a persona _every_ time we enter a palace.”

If Akira was feeling petulant, he might’ve argued that they’d actually done a lot better this latest time. They probably wouldn’t have _all_ died if Ryuji hadn’t awoken.

The trouble was, Morgana was right. For all their new powers, they kept going from on top of the world to catastrophe in the space of one slip up. Yeah, they’d been lucky so far, but they _all_ should’ve known better than to count on that. The universe didn’t just _give_ forever.

But then on the other hand, Akira was _pretty_ sure Arsène was invincible, despite any evidence to the contrary.

He’d have to find a way to reconcile those two ideas.

Morgana refused to elaborate any further on _what_ they’d need to do differently. Or, for that matter, to explain what they were going to do about Kamoshida. That would apparently have to wait until they got somewhere quiet.

Over by the wall _had_ been quiet. Slipping his key into the dance hall’s back entrance, it occurred to Akira that he had roommates. The lights weren’t on, but that didn’t necessarily signify anything. Assuming that they were the only ones here and that none of the student council were just loitering. Actually, hold on, this was the _worst_ place to have this conversation.

He couldn’t imagine that _Lelouch_ was home - the sun was too high: he and Rivalz’d still be out living it up in the Settlement. He’d actually offered Akira the chance to come along, but even if he hadn’t had secret magical plans, Riegel kept him on a tighter schedule than they were used to.

Nunnally and Sayoko were a little trickier. Akira hadn’t kept track of their comings and goings - he hadn’t expected he’d have to dodge around them. Maybe he should have.

Maybe they could all just stay out of sight and keep it down.

Visions flashed in Akira’s mind of Ann’s battlecries, Sakamoto’s indignant shouting. The freakin’ _cat_.

They most certainly could _not_.

Ann must’ve been thinking the same thing: she called out, “Anybody home?” into the empty hall. Her voice actually echoed. It barely even did that in the _palace_. That was the only response she got, though.

Sakamoto must not’ve worked in here yet: he had to take a moment to gawp at the expanse of it all. It froze Morgana in his tracks too: you’d think a self proclaimed master thief would be more used to this kind of thing. The setting sun caught the massive central chandelier in a way that it still sparkled. It actually might’ve looked better this way than when it was lit: it was more natural. And it was better lighting to skulk around in: it made all their shadows long and flickering.

Morgana’s tail flicked back and forth with the swaying of the chandelier. Under his breath, he panted, “T-treasure?”

“Morgana?” Ann slipped past Akira and Sakamoto, crouching down on the cat’s level, “Hello?” She waved her hand in front of his eyes. He just kept staring, burbling to himself. Wonder of wonders: _she_ was invisible to him right now. Ann looked back at them, brows knitted but not worried yet, “Uh…”

Akira shrugged, “Anyone know how to fix a cat?”

He braced for impact, but there was no blowup from Morgana. _That_ was cause for concern.

“Uh… smack him?” Sakamoto suggested. It got him a warning look, but to Akira it looked like he didn’t notice. He still seemed a little dazed himself, “Should I… should I get like a cleaning rag or something? In case someone comes by?”

“You should be fine,” Akira said, leaning down to scoop the cat up. Morgana meowed in protest - because he was really, _definitely_ human, and not at all a cat - but otherwise consented to be held. He still wouldn’t take his eyes off shiny things, though, “Maybe things’ll be better in the council chambers?”

“Council chambers?” Sakamoto breathed with maybe not _fully_ undue reverence. He shook his head, “It must be, like… some kind of war room or diet hall or some shit.”

“It’s _really_ nothing that impressive,” Ann said, heading for the staircase.

“It kinda _is_ , though,” Akira slung Morgana over his shoulder so he could keep staring behind them. Purring and mewling, you could actually mistake him for cute like this. Akira scritched behind his ears before he realized what he was doing, “I swear, sometimes at the head of that desk Milly looks like some kind of evil corporate CEO.” He’d meant the image as a joke, but now that he thought of it, yeah, she really did.

The entrance to the dance hall did a good job of preparing you for what the rest of it was going to be like: there was nothing that _quite_ matched the decadence of that first room. So at least Sakamoto wasn’t taken out of commission by it. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t impressed: he let out a low, “Duuude…” before rushing to take what was normally Milly’s seat. With his overly formal janitor’s cap and the chair’s plush, he looked like a ship’s captain, “God, _this_ is a hideout, you guys.”

“A bit too much traffic,” Akira explained, although it _would_ have a certain flair to jet off to the Metaverse after meeting in here, “And we don’t actually know where it goes in the palace.”

“Speaking of, _Morgana_!” Ann called. He stirred, gasping and leaping out of Akira’s arms when he realized where he was. Ann fought a grin, trying to keep her voice stern, “Are you ready to be a person again?”

“Wha…?” Morgana asked, looking around. He must still have been a little stunned: had he just lost the time since they came in? “Yeah. Sorry about that. I don’t know what happened there…”

“Catnip?” Sakamoto suggested, resting his chin on a fist.

Morgana hissed, hopping onto the table, “Of course it wasn’t _catnip_! How many times do I have to tell you-!!!”

“ _Boys_!” Ann must’ve seen that ready to spiral into another tangent, “I know this dick waving contest is super important to you all,” that wasn’t fair: Akira was blameless this time. So why did _he_ feel so brought to heel by that whip crack in her voice? “But _Morgana_. You said there was something we could do about Kamoshida from inside the Metaverse. What is it?”

Bristling, Morgana whispered, “So _vulgar_ , Lady Ann.” He scrambled to make up for lost ground before she could let him really have it, slowly regaining his composure. And his cocky tone, “There is: by taking his palace’s treasure, we’ll be able to make him confess his crimes with his own mouth.”

“Cool,” Akira said, leaning back against a far wall and crossing a leg in front of himself, “Now explain it to us like we’re completely new to palaces and treasures and magic because _we are_.”

Sakamoto actually raised a hand like they were in class. Akira didn’t want to laugh, he looked embarrassed and chastened enough, “Uh, and some of us might not, like… get all this Metaverse stuff yet? So if we have time to go over some of that…?”

They did. It took a few minutes longer than any of them had probably expected. If Akira was honest, it would probably have gone faster if he and Ann hadn’t kept trying to help. The cat just had a way of overcomplicating matters that made you want to simplify them, but then _that_ turned into an argument about whether what _you_ said was the same as what _he_ said. But Sakamoto seemed to get it. Mostly. Eventually. There was a lot of disgruntled brow furrowing, and he ended up getting up to pace the ideas out.

There was a lot to process. Akira still wasn’t sure _he_ understood it all yet. And apparently, there was just going to be more. Morgana talked at length about treasures and distortions and shadows and cognitions, and slowly but surely a picture began to form in Akira’s mind.

When the cat stopped talking, he clicked his tongue, “So basically, at the center of Kamoshida’s palace, there’s a treasure. And in the grand Metaverse metaphor, that represents the source of his distorted desires.”

Ann nodded, her hands steepled. She’d found her way to her usual spot at the council table over by the far corner of the room, “So if we take that away, those desires will go away. His heart will be changed, and he’ll become…” her face scrunched up as she searched for the right word, “not a _good_ person.”

“But like, a person with a moral compass,” Akira supplied.

“Exactly,” Morgana said, “He’ll still be aware of what he’s done and why he did it. But once we trigger a change of heart in him, recognize that it was wrong. He’ll see _himself_ as the monster we’ve met in his palace.”

Sakamoto finally stopped his pacing, punching a fist into his hand, “So we go to the treasure, and pound Kamoshida’s face in until he gives it to us!”

Morgana grimaced, sighing a bit overly heavily, “I… no. I mean, if we _have_ to fight him, fine. But we can just go to it and _take_ it. We can do this a _smart_ way, we don’t have to…” he shook his head, “Why am I bothering. There’s more to it than that, anyway.”

Sniffing a little, Sakamoto growled, “The way I see it, fighting that bastard’s a bonus.” Akira noted Ann glancing out the window. There was something hard to read on her face. Indecision? Maybe she just saw it the same way Sakamoto did - and wasn’t sure she liked seeing that violence in herself.

Akira remembered that first exhilaration Arsène had brought him, and the doubt that followed. Ann had absolved him of that, and then there had only been the rush these past few days. It was weird to remember that they shouldn’t _want_ to hurt someone.

That didn’t mean he didn’t.

There would be time to worry about that later. He tried to keep his voice neutral, “There’s more, Morgana? Don’t keep us in suspense.”

“Some of it will make more sense when we actually get to the treasure,” the cat explained. He’d settled into a dignified, upright position at the table’s head, “But full disclosure: I haven’t done this before. I don’t _know_ that it’ll work.” Her looked at the ceiling, “There’s the possibility that if we go too far - if we take too much away from him… well, desires are part of what make us all human. The desire to grow, to live - even something as simple as eating is fueled by a desire. So if we take them away… someone like that would be just an empty shell. I can’t see them surviving for very long.

“The same is true if we destroy his shadow: it’s a representation in the Metaverse of himself in the real world. If it goes away…”

Ann started in surprise, “He wouldn’t just… literally disappear, would he?”

Shaking his head, Morgana said, “I mean, probably not something like that. But it would destroy his… I guess the best word for it is soul?” His tail flicked back and forth nervously, “I don’t know what a person like _that_ would be like either. What’s a body without a soul?”

There was a fairly obvious answer: a corpse.

Akira ran a hand through his hair, puzzling through that. It was a lot.

The way he saw it, there were two big issues to confront, “Alright, team. Question one: do we think changing his heart will actually _do_ anything?”

Ann blinked in confusion, looking at him like he’d lost his mind, “… do we think… Akira, if his heart changes, he’s going to… Morgana, what will he…?”

“He’ll be so overwhelmed by what he’s done that he’ll probably confess,” Morgana shook his head, “No, he’ll _definitely_ confess. At least.”

“Right. He’ll _confess_ ,” Akira said. It was starting to dawn on Sakamoto’s face. The others were slower to the punch, so he elaborated, “An Honorary Britannian will confess crimes to the Britannian legal system that he committed against Elevens.” He thought of his own experiences with that system - what justice looked like to the empire when it crossed racial lines.

Part of how Saul Ichabod had pitched himself to the Kurusu household had been the fact that his legal team had spearheaded the _only_ murder case where the victim was an Eleven and the accused was a Britannian. Just being _seen_ was a victory for Eleven victims. Hoping for justice was asking for the moon.

Sakamoto didn’t strike Akira as the type to know that sort of legal trivia, but he’d lived through occupation. He understood what an Eleven’s rights were worth, “He might only get a slap on the wrist. If they charge him with anything at all.”

“That’s… crazy.” By Ann’s tone, that didn’t make it not believable, “If Kamoshida’s actually coming to _them_ and asking to be punished…”

That still might not _mean_ anything. Some Britannians didn’t get much more say in their own destiny than Numbers. “He’s only an Honorary Britannian,” Akira said, “So I guess it kinda comes down to whether Britannia wants to _keep_ him after he confesses.”

Sakamoto rolled his eyes, kicking lightly at the chamber doorframe, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they already _knew_.”

It wasn’t inconceivable, but Akira doubted they knew _everything_. Ashford would know better than to keep a former Eleven on the payroll once he started secretly lusting after the student body. But having _thoughts_ wasn’t an offense Britannia would punish legally. Quietly getting Kamoshida fired didn’t seem a satisfying comeuppance for what he’d done.

Morgana’s voice wavered. The poor thing was clearly out of his element once they started on real world logistics, “I think… if Kamoshida has a change of heart, and for some reason Britannia _doesn’t_ want to punish him, he’ll probably seek some alternative form of justice.”

It wasn’t convincing. Maybe that was just because Morgana couldn’t have any idea what that might look like. But all Akira could think of was if he tried to find a rebel cell and submitted himself to their authority. And that was just an execution with extra steps.

And they might not have needed those extra steps, “… okay, then question two: if we’re not sure that changing his heart will do anything, how far are we willing to go to stop him?”

“As far as it takes,” Sakamoto said immediately. It startled Akira until he realized that he might just not have thought through what that promise meant. Or maybe he did, and was more resolved than Akira had imagined.

This time Ann was the quicker one. Her eyes widened, “Akira… are you suggesting…?”

“I’m not _suggesting_ ,” Akira said, and he really wasn’t, “But if we think it’s the only way to _stop_ him, do we care if he dies?”

He wasn’t sure he even had the answer just for himself. Kamoshida had clearly shown himself a _monster_ these last few days - in just the short time Akira had known him. Surely such a person deserved whatever they got?

But it still didn’t _quite_ sit right.

“Seriously?” Sakamoto might have read his mind. He stopped just short of exploding, “Why should we? After today… after what he did to Suzui- _san_ …”

Ann said nothing, only clenched her fists. Her anger burned quieter, but no less hot for it. This was exactly why it had to be Akira to raise these points: he was the only one far enough away from this to think it through rationally.

And he wasn’t sure even _he_ could do that. Still, he tried to keep his voice level, “Okay. So we’re okay with killing him. We’re okay with being murderers?”

That gave Sakamoto a little pause, which was a relief. The blond glared at him, setting his jaw in thought. Akira crossed his arms and waited, “We wouldn’t… it’d be different. It’s not murder.”

“How?” Akira hoped that sounded more like an honest question than a challenge. He suspected he was liable to get slugged at this point. So the second part he directed to Ann: he was sure that she was thinking the same things, even if she wasn’t saying them, “If we go do something to Kamoshida, knowing that it’s going to kill him, how are we _not_ murderers?”

She didn’t have an answer for that. So she deflected, glaring at him. Maybe a bit of Carmen’s fire had come back with her: it was hard not to just bend to her will, “He would deserve it.”

“Yeah, he would,” Akira agreed. “But once he’s gone, he’s gone. So forget about him. We’re the ones who have to stick around afterwards and live with being killers: my question is if we’re ready to do that?”

Sakamoto let out a tense growl, and Ann broke eye contact with him to look out the window for a response. But that was as much of an answer as either of them were ready to give. Akira couldn’t blame them: if one of them had asked, he had no idea what his own answer would be.

The last thing he’d done before stumbling into Masayoshi Shido’s life and almost ruining his own was go to a seminar on joining the auxiliaries. Admittedly, he hadn’t paid attention to most of it: most of it was the same stuff they’d all been hearing for years now.

Britannia always had this bizarre, vaguely half-assed approach to talking about military service with Numbers. They wanted people to join up: the empire always needed warm bodies, especially in provinces like Area 11 where resistance had never fully died down. But they didn’t want just _anyone_ to join up - or at least not make it through the three years. Britannians were _better_ than Elevens. What did it mean if over the course of three years, any Eleven could turn into a Britannian?

They didn’t disguise these mixed feelings: recruitment seminars always had the air of some kind of exclusive club. As in all walks of life, there were slogans aplenty: _‘We seek only the best of the best!’ ‘This trial is beyond most of your abilities!’_

That one had always made Akira ask himself, ‘Is it beyond _mine_?’ And _that_ always sent him adventuring down a rabbit hole of other questions. Did he _want_ to fight for king and country? Was _this_ his Way Out? Could he kill for the invaders?

And on the other hand, could he kill the invaders?

At least in Akira’s experience, ordinary Elevens avoided talking openly about the rebellion. It was a dangerous topic, and not just because Britannia might hear. Seven years of occupation had done away with all but the most diehard believers in the resistance. They would give anything - and anyone - to liberate Japan. Sometimes, that made them scarier than Britannia.

Still, the Liberation Front loomed large over every Britannian recruiter. When Britannia shouted, ‘Joining us is your path to freedom!’ the JLF whispered, ‘But it’s not your _only_ path.’

Whenever Akira had thought seriously about it, he could always faintly imagine both. He could march and salute and scream, ‘Yes, My Lord!’ He already _did_ that. And he _hated_ it. It made him want to die. Some days he wanted to cheer when he heard about a resistance bombing. Other days, it happened in his backyard and he wished they would just _stop_ so that occupation could be a little less hard.

He could see himself both as a Britannian soldier and a resistance fighter. He could, if he tried his hardest, see himself killing people who, if he had made the alternate choice, would have been his allies. He could see both possibilities, and so he could choose neither.

Then he’d run into Shido, and been absolved of the question of who and whether he was willing to kill to escape the ghetto. He’d found his strange little rehabilitation, and a bloodless Way Out. It was hard and it wore on the soul, but Akira should have been grateful for it.

Now the question had returned, and its scope had narrowed. Could Akira kill a _specific_ person? A person who he _knew_ the world would be better without? He tore through shadows easily enough - he _reveled_ in that. Maybe a person would be just as easy? It didn’t feel like it _should_ be.

The thing, though, was that he might not have to kill anyone. Not if Morgana was telling the truth. If they really could change Kamoshida’s heart, maybe he would enact justice upon himself.

And Akira could once again delay learning whether or not he was a killer. All of them could. He just hoped the others saw it that way, “Why should we be the ones who have to bear moral responsibility for this? _Kamoshida_ is the monster here. Let him carry the weight of what he’s done.”

Sakamoto and Ann sat on that for a few moments. It was a tough sell: both of them had already been through so much. How could he blame them if they decided that all they wanted was revenge? But in the brief time he’d known them both, that wasn’t the impression Akira had gotten out of either of them.

Ann spoke first, “I want him to pay.” Akira’s stomach got ready to drop, but then she went on, “… and I guess that he won’t if he’s dead and I’m still here trying to wash the blood off my hands.” She smiled, but it was the uneasy one from when they’d first met - when she thought there was _no_ escape from Kamoshida, “And I think changing his heart will work.”

I sounded a bit more like ‘I hope’ or ‘I pray,’ but it was heartening all the same.

Morgana let out a relieved sigh - he’d been holding his breath so tightly, it had actually been easy to forget the cat was there, “Wise words, Ann.” So wise he’d forgotten she was his Lady, apparently. Looking gravely at Sakamoto, he asked, “And you…?”

The other blond blew a raspberry at the ceiling, “It doesn’t look like I have much of a choice.”

“Sure you do,” Akira countered, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, “You’re a part of this now.” He waved a finger in a lazy circle to encompass them all in _this_.

Sakamoto let out a doubtful laugh. That was fair enough. In something as simple as the one student council meeting he’d been able to attend, Akira still felt unconvinced that his opinion mattered. He couldn’t imagine _this_ being someone’s first glimmer of independence.

Rubbing at the back of his head, Sakamoto said, “I… don’t want to kill him.” A second later, he added, “Not because everyone else said it! And not because I don’t think he deserves it. I just… I dunno.” He locked eyes with Akira, brow furrowing as he searched for words for what Akira suspected were familiar feelings, “I don’t want to hurt anyone, I guess?”

It was a more noble way of putting it than Akira could honestly come up with. He smiled, “I understand.” Turning to face the others as well, he said, “So we’re in agreement: we need to stop Kamoshida, but we don’t want to kill him.”

No one was eager to commit to that. But they all were willing. Akira crossed his arms, feeling the grin coming back, “Then there’s only one possible solution. Morgana: how do we change a heart?”

As a cat, Morgana’s features were so much less mobile than in the Metaverse. But you could still see the cheeky smile dancing across his face as they returned to his element. As he spoke, the plan began to form. It would take a little time, and a lot of determination.

The one they had. Everyone in this room had more than proven they had plenty of the other.

What they’d really need was patience.

* * *

**August 8, 2017 A.T.B. - Suzaku**

The sun was finally beginning to peak over the horizon. A little patience really would see you through to anything. Yesterday evening, just as the 15th was filtering into the mess hall, Major Epcar had pulled Suzaku aside and ordered him outside and standing at attention by 0400. He’d known better than to ask what was going on: why ask a question you knew wasn’t going to be answered?

Tucking into his rations, Goro had teased that they were going to promote him again. Suzaku hoped not. PFC was already _much_ too much responsibility to be giving him. They’d come through one more combat situation since his promotion unscathed, but he much preferred when only _his_ life was in his hands.

A chill wind tickled through his curls against the top of his neck, and he resisted a shiver. He understood, abstractly, the need for the officer corps to assert authority over auxiliary soldiers. Furthermore, he understood that one way they did that was getting them in position long before any _actual_ meeting was meant to take place, but this was bordering on the ridiculous. Do this too many times, and it would only impair their ability when battle came.

No one broke formation, though. Suzaku had been the first to arrive, and optimistically set himself at the edge of the courtyard. Thankfully, others had begun to filter in shortly after him - otherwise he’d have worried this really _was_ a promotion. He was joined by what he recognized as the other PFCs. Major Epcar had divided the 15th into several subsets like what he’d carved out for Suzaku, and divvied up minor promotions accordingly.

It struck Suzaku as a little clunky. Leadership clearly hadn’t been handed out based on ability. He didn’t know _everyone_ in the 15th, but he was fairly confident that any member of his squad could easily lead one on their own.

If Suzaku had to guess (and he _did_ have to guess. Regulations kept him from asking his neighbor), he’d say the squad leaders of half the battalion were here. It was probably marching orders, then.

Though he wasn’t quite sure about the wisdom of splitting the unit in half. Just the paperwork from the inevitable name changes gave him a headache.

Silently, he mouthed to himself, ‘Theirs not to make reply / Theirs not to reason why…’

Before he could give the final line, the call _finally_ came, “Ten-shun!”

Major Epcar had done a good job drilling synchronicity into them. When they moved on command, the 15th was one animal.

Suzaku wondered if he admired his work, striding from one end of their line to Suzaku’s. He never failed to impress, himself: such a massive beast of a man. _Of course_ high command would want him in front of prospective Honorary Britannians. His very presence was a statement of what Britannia demanded in exchange for citizenship.

It would be intimidating if Suzaku only cared about the prize at the end of service. That wasn’t why he was here.

The major stopped just in front of Suzaku. The downsides of arriving early continued to pile on. “Private First Class Suzaku Kururugi,” he boomed, taking his characteristic pause for dramatic effect. Sometimes it sounded more like he had a speech impediment he was struggling to overcome, “Are you Britannia’s, body and soul?”

“Yes, My Lord!” you could fake the force behind it so easily, but the feeling was harder. Suzaku didn’t think his was truly believable yet. He’d have practice.

The pristine side of Major Epcar’s face pulled the slightest bit upward. He’d left the burned side facing them, which diminished whatever fatherly pride he’d been going for. Still, he strode down the line, barking just a little louder, “Private First Class Imekanu Rusut, have you risen above your former countrymen, have you become something _greater_?”

“Yes, My Lord!” she replied. The fervor was there for Rusut. She may have been that rare thing: a true believer. Suzaku had never had the chance to say two words to her, but her name and her larger build and her wavy red hair gave a Suzaku a hunch why.

Before the war, Rusut had been Ainu. PFC Bong Dong-Hyuk had been Zainichi. Suzaku had been Japanese. Now they were all Elevens. Soon they would all be Britannians.

That was better, surely?

Major Epcar drank in her reply, scanning through his soldiers until he arrived on the next in his performance, “Private First Class Shinji Madono!” he’d built to a roar now, “Will you _go_ anywhere, _do_ anything, _kill_ anyone - in the name of your country, in the name of your emperor?!”

“Yes, My Lord!” Poor Shinji was a bad choice to end on. He had a higher voice, and had to shriek to match Major Epcar’s energy. Suzaku could imagine the veins popping in the kid’s relatively thin neck - he was making it work.

The major recovered, if he even noticed there had been a stumble. He raised his fists on high, which Suzaku recognized from one of His Majesty’s more recent speeches, “Soldiers of the 15th! I stand before you on this day well and truly awed: it would appear that I see none of the backwards, sniveling monkeys who enlisted in this unit! I stand before proud soldiers of Britannia!”

They all picked up the cue before they even needed to be prompted, “All Hail Britannia!”

He joined them, and they repeated the call until he was satisfied. For good measure, some of them continued just as ferociously even as Major Epcar, his ruined face lit with bemusement, called for them to settle down. Suzaku quieted as soon as he was allowed: he couldn’t imagine even the true believers were _really_ that passionate.

When he had his quiet, Major Epcar stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back, “We part ways today, soldiers of the 15th. In his wisdom, the viceroy has determined that your services are no longer needed in Sendai.” There was something faintly bitter there. Suzaku had never seen the man that Major Epcar _really_ was, under his mask of bravado and showmanship. Maybe he’d just heard an echo, “The 15th Honorary Auxiliary will thus be broken into smaller units, and sent to defend the Pax Britannica wherever it is threatened. On this, the evening of the anniversary of Area 11’s ascension, you have all been chosen to lead your squads into the belly of the beast: you will stand by His Highness’s side, and safeguard the seat of our power!”

Major Epcar loved to hear himself talk, and that was especially true this morning. It was almost sweet: he knew this would be the last time he could regale his soldiers, and so he was making the most of it.

Suzaku kept listening, kept hoping that there would be some crucial piece of information that made this into a complicated order. But for the life of him, it sounded like all of this could be reduced to, ‘You’re all being transferred to the Tokyo Settlement. Be ready for transport at 1200.’

And that was an order that could’ve been given outside the mess, _before_ Suzaku had stood bleary eyed for an hour. In fact, if he had gotten the order then, he could’ve had his team ready to go by now. This was all bluster at the cost of efficiency.

His not to reason why.

Major Epcar continued until almost the moment that drills were normally scheduled to begin. Suzaku had begun to worry that the rest of the unit would come charging in before he reached the end. He cut it close enough to rob Suzaku of the ten seconds he’d need to convey this to the others.

There wasn’t time during drills to pull any of them aside either. They marched, which they all knew how to do by now. They practiced hand to hand, which gave Suzaku the opportunity to help whoever he was partnered with to improve. He’d had too much of a head start on most of them to learn much himself. They hit the firing range, which Suzaku felt might not have been as effective now as it had been when they began their training. They could _all_ shoot straight now, or had otherwise learned to accommodate for being unable to. The trick now was being able to shoot when there was someone on the other side of the barrel. Or knowing _whether_ to.

In his head, he understood that the repetition of all of these tasks turned them into mindless ones, ones that they could do automatically when a combat situation arose. But didn’t they say that experience was the best teacher? While bullets flew in practice in Sendai, somewhere else in Area 11, they were flying in anger.

Every second they were all here was a second they could instead be working to bring peace back to Area 11. When Suzaku let his mind wander far enough, drills began to feel like a moral failing.

Thankfully, the first round of them ended early today. Someone must’ve remembered that they needed to give the soldiers a chance to actually follow Major Epcar’s instructions. The 15th dispersed a little faster than normal - free time was scarce at the barracks, and they tried to squeeze as many drops as they could of what they had.

Suzaku stuck around to help return the practice rifles to the armory. That meant also submitting to a pat down. The Auxiliaries continued to have a problem with rebel infiltration. It had mostly died down since early occupation. By now, they were mostly token for the 15th. Since Suzaku had come into the unit, there had never been any problems like that. But he understood the reason for the higher-ups’ caution. The same reason they’d never put a former Number in a Knightmare Frame: the army couldn’t give up its edge over terrorism.

It all only shaved off another fifteen minutes of his time. Throwing a fit would only make it take longer. And it wasn’t like he was going to have to hunt down the rest of his team: he had a pretty good idea of where they’d be.

Sure enough, Suzaku headed back into the barracks, and there they were. Goro and Hifumi sat across from each other at the foot of his cot, a wooden chessboard spread out between them on his footlocker. Goro had liberated it after a recent raid, and it had quickly turned into the squad’s new toy for downtime.

Sitting crosslegged, Goro’s brow was already furrowing. Suzaku assessed the board: still the early game. He was either playing it up or Hifumi had _really_ gotten to him, “Who’s winning?”

“Who else?” Yosuke asked. He was looming above Goro, surveying the game. Kanji was squatted by Hifumi. He might still have been trying to puzzle through the rules.

“Shut up, Hanamura,” Goro muttered, tentatively moving the bullet he used for a missing bishop, “It’s early yet.” Her riposte was faster and a lot more decisive, and he groaned.

Chuckling, Yosuke quipped, “We oughta get a timer - keep Akechi from stalling.”

“Shut _up_ , Hanamura!” he said again. His fingers drummed over the pieces as he looked up at Suzaku, “About time we saw you again, Kururugi. Epcar was in rare form this morning.”

“Do we have our marching orders?” Hifumi asked. It was almost a surprise that she’d pulled herself away from the game. You would never expect her to be the competitive type: she was a bit too demure, a bit too willing to play support. But that same tactical mind that had been such a godsend for Suzaku was now setting to work dismantling Goro’s defenses.

If Suzaku were her, he’d try wreaking havoc with that knight Goro seemed to have forgotten about. But if Suzaku were her, Goro might actually stand a chance of winning, “We’re going to Tokyo. They want us ready to go at 1200.”

Yosuke glanced at the barracks’s clock, “Okay. So plenty of time.”

“That was _a lot_ of shouting for that simple an order,” Goro observed.

“So wait, why could he just switch those two around?” For a second, Suzaku thought Kanji meant why Major Epcar or the viceroy could just transfer them. Which simply wasn’t a question you asked. Then he noticed the board.

Hifumi must’ve thought the same thing - she was normally quicker to explain the rules to him, “Oh, that’s called ‘castling,’ Tatsumi. It’s a bit of an advanced move. Albeit one for _cowards_.”

Goro let out a pant of nervous laughter. Behind him, Yosuke murmured, “Man, Togo’s _scary_ when she plays this.”

“‘Castling,’” Kanji muttered to himself, trying to commit the idea to memory. After a moment’s thought, he added, “Y’think that’s why we’re going to Tokyo?” Suzaku blinked, and by the others’ faces, he wasn’t the only one confused. As if it were an explanation, Kanji said again, “Castling.”

Yosuke gave him a look, “… dude, chess isn’t like real war,”

“It’s a good point, though,” Hifumi said evenly. She was putting that knight to work now, “His Highness will likely want forces concentrated around the capital, in light of the holiday.”

Goro grimaced, either from the content of what she said or of her gameplay, “The JLF always tries something around this time.” Moving that bullet-bishop back would only delay her, not contain her, “For them, it’s like a new year’s celebration for the rebellion.”

Hifumi’s knight danced around it. A pawn who’d never had a chance to move in this game paid the price, “They strike loudly and hard, and reaffirm their commitment to their cause.” She closed her eyes, sighed, “But since we _know_ they’re doing that, we can build up our defenses where we think they’ll strike. Build a shield, and we deaden the blow. They’re just throwing their lives away for nothing.”

“At this point, it’s more about the statement than actually progressing the war effort,” Suzaku agreed. He added - a little louder in case they were being listened to, but also because he believed it, “You can’t even call the movement a war anymore: it’s just senseless violence.”

“What do you think His Highness has in the capital that he wants us protecting?” Goro asked, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice. Suzaku was pretty sure that it was his way of making sure that the others didn’t spiral into overly serious and depressing thoughts. If it was, he was grateful for it: some things you couldn’t change by dwelling on them, “Other than his precious, private self. And whoever else he deems _worth_ protecting.”

That wasn’t treason, but it danced mockingly at the edge of it. It probably wouldn’t have raised the eyebrows of any but the most jumpy of inspectors. Yet as the squad leader, Suzaku couldn’t let it go unremarked on, “Goro, I know that it’s just us and you don’t mean it, but be careful saying things like that.”

Goro let out a ragged sigh - though that might have been directed at Hifumi’s continued dominance over him. His tone still just as light, he said, “Honestly. Give him a little bit of power, and in a couple days our sweet boy turns into a dictator.”

Suzaku smiled awkwardly, “I’m just looking out for you.”

“I’ll be fine, Kururugi,” Goro said, “I know you haven’t had a chance to rescue someone all day, but you can _relax_.”

Yosuke and Kanji both suppressed a laugh at that. Hifumi even lost her game face to smile and give Suzaku a ‘well, it’s true’ shrug. His face heated a little - it wasn’t like he _tried_ to be sort of wannabe hero that they all seemed to peg him as. He could only be what he was.

What’s more, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that all of them were the same way. Yes, they’d come from different circumstances. Suzaku would’ve been shocked if any of them came from a background remotely similar to his own. Their reasons for joining the military were almost certainly different from his, too - though no more selfish, no matter what Goro teased.

He’d seen them in action. They were good people. If to them, Suzaku looked better from the outside, that was only because he needed to shine the brightest if he was going to find redemption.

“He’s got that far away look again,” Goro quipped. He studied Suzaku’s face, resting his chin on interlaced fingers, “Where’d you go, leader?”

Somewhere the others wouldn’t want to follow.

Suzaku played it off with a hand wave, “Just thinking of what comes next. I wish we knew a little more about what the situation is in Tokyo.”

“Don’t fight a battle you don’t know the shape of yet, Kururugi,” Hifumi said, though she sounded a little distant herself. Maybe it was to convince herself that she added, “Stressing about it now is just an unnecessary hit to morale later.”

Goro considered him for a few moments more before returning his attention to the game. Something on his face was unconvinced by Suzaku’s explanation. Quietly, he said, “Leave fussing over tactics to Togo,” he tapped on one of his pieces, “She’s obviously our resident genius _there_.” Hifumi dipped her head in sufficiently modest gratitude, “Though it’ll probably be a lesser mind somewhere _above_ that makes the real decisions.

“Which, when you think about it, should be a relief.” Goro was on something of a roll. He picked up a piece, twirling it once between skilled fingers, “The decision is _theirs_ , whoever _they_ may be. We all only need to know a where and a when.” Setting the piece back down, it seemed he’d finally dealt with that knight, “The rest is just cutting through.”

Suzaku considered that. It didn’t _quite_ track, “Goro… you don’t need to say things you don’t really believe to make _me_ feel better.”

Goro’s lip twitched, but he gave no other sign of acknowledgement. Hifumi smiled sweetly, “That was quite dramatically done, Akechi. But it’s going to cost you your queen.”

And sure enough, she was right, Goro’s suddenly flustered gasp aside. It set the other observers to laughing, Yosuke jibing, “Trying a bit too hard to be cool, Akechi?”

“Shut _up_ , Hanamura!!!”

Kanji huffed, striking a dramatic pose. His voice went high and airy and not quite as close to Goro’s as he thought, “Don’t you see, Kururugi? I’m so _deep_ and so _wise_!”

It was close enough to make Goro squawk, “And now you’ve corrupted poor, innocent Tatsumi!”

Suzaku couldn’t help but smile. It was an odd sort of nice, these few moments of reprieve they all had together. There weren’t a lot of times in Area 11 where you could just breathe without worrying - especially in the auxiliaries. His team, at least, all had each other’s backs. Whatever was waiting for them in Tokyo, together they could get through it.

* * *

**August 8, 2017 A.T.B. - Ann**

‘You’re sure you’re okay?’

That really _was_ the question. But not for the reasons that Shirley thought.

Ann had left the council chamber yesterday to her phone pinging. Apparently, she’d missed two calls and about fifty thousand texts from Shirley (with a few from Milly and one from Nina sprinkled in for good measure).

Where was she? Was she alright? Did she know what had happened? Oh god, she hadn’t snuck off to the ghetto today, had she?

This barrage had started around the same time that Ann and Akira had headed into the Metaverse. Obviously, she’d had other things on her mind at the time.

She’d called Shirley back, and gone to meet her on the terrace outside the girls’ dorms. Akira and Morgana had come with her, to back up and improve upon whatever she was going to say about where she’d been.

It turned out that she hadn’t needed that sort of help. Shirley was too worried about how she was handling what had happened to Shiho to question where she’d been. She’d apparently been right by the building when it happened, and helped provide first aid.

She’d walked Ann through a stammering recollection of what had happened. She tried to be reassuring, and prefaced practically everything with a “You’re sure you’re holding up? I know you two are close,” or something to that effect.

If she was being honest, Ann probably could’ve done without some of the details of Shiho’s suffering. Reliving it seemed to be more for Shirley’s own benefit than anyone else’s.

And you know what? That was fine. If she’d really been as close to things, really helped as much as she said she did, then Ann was willing to bet this had been the most stressful moment of Shirley’s life. All things considered, she’d handled it well.

“And then when I couldn’t get in touch with you I started freaking out,” Shirley had shivered at the memory, “Like, what if you found out and did something like… I don’t even know what. Something _drastic_.” Akira gave Ann a sideways look. If only Shirley knew how what a drastic thing Ann had done.

From his newfound perch in Akira’s bag, Morgana had gushed, “Even after saving someone, her first thought is for how her friends are handling things… Lady Shirley really is amazing.”

It had stopped her heart for a moment. They were supposed to be preparing for a heist: they were _really_ going to just spring talking cats on Shirley? Morgana didn’t think _that_ was conspicuous?

Shirley had blinked, no doubt wondering where the voice came from, “Akira, do you… do you have a cat in your bag?”

“Only people who’ve been in the Metaverse are gonna hear my voice,” Morgana explained, hopping out and leaning over Akira’s shoulder. It startled a pleasantly confused gasp out of Shirley, “Regular people are just going to hear meowing.”

Akira had adjusted his glasses as Morgana slunk across the table to Shirley, “Well. I guess the cat’s out the bag now.”

Ann wished she had left him to get eaten by shadows.

At least he’d provided a temporary distraction for Shirley. She’d cooed, “Aw… he’s such a handsome boy!”

“I _am_ handsome!” Morgana said a little too smugly.

He’d settled into playing the part of Shirley’s support animal for the rest of the conversation. Which struck Ann as a little hypocritical, considering what a stink he made whenever the boys called him a cat. Now a cute girl was treating him like one and it was fine? Didn’t seem right.

Ann couldn’t fault him too much for helping, though. Scratching behind his ears, Shirley had been a lot calmer when she said, “Shiho- _kun_ always just seemed so happy. I wish there had been something we could do.”

For so long, Ann had thought the same thing. Now there was.

Today, Shirley had continued to process her own grief by checking in on Ann’s. It felt like every fifteen minutes she was getting another text from her friend. Exactly how flighty and emotional did Shirley think she was?

She’d also unknowingly helped the infiltration: at her suggestion, the student council wasn’t going to meet. Milly was calling it a mental health day.

If it were anyone else, Ann would’ve been pissed at her for using this to get out of work. As it was, she was actually a little touched by the sacrifice Shirley was making. Lelouch had even bothered to show up today, and who could say when that was going to happen again?

It freed Ann up to take care of her part of the plan. So she’d be grateful.

Another text came through, ‘If you need to talk, call me, but do it in the next ten minutes. Otherwise I’ll be doing swim stuff.’

Ann shook her head, ‘I’m okay, Shirley. Take a breath and do warmups.’

It wasn’t a lie. Or if it was, not a complete or malicious one. Ann _was_ okay.

It was just, y’know, how long would she _stay_ okay?

Being back in the gym just felt _wrong_. Like she’d gotten trapped in some haunted mansion, escaped, and then gone back the next day because she forgot her wallet. The ghosts might’ve been invisible now, but that didn’t mean they weren’t lurking.

Volleyball practice echoed through the walls of the gym’s main court. As long as Ann focused on something else, she wouldn’t pick out anything - or _anyone_ \- in particular.

Yesterday, they’d come up with their plan and split up tasks to prepare to infiltrate the palace. Supposedly - Morgana was hazy on a lot of the details - they wouldn’t need to clear a path to the treasure all in one day. That they didn’t _have_ to didn’t mean they _shouldn’t_ , though. Ann had let Kamoshida be for too long as it was. Even these extra days of preparation felt like too much time for him to roam free.

But they were absolutely necessary if they were going to get this done as fast as possible. If it meant living the next two days in constant anticipation, so be it.

Their shopping list, so to speak, had, unfortunately, brought her back to the gym. It was her own fault, she’d been so focused on the Kamoshida in the Metaverse that she’d almost forgotten about the one in the real world - even though _he_ was the one they were actually trying to stop. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he’d be here until she’d arrived.

There was no way Ann was leaving empty handed, though. She’d dodged him before, she could do it again.

If she’d thought about it, though, she’d have made sure that Akira or Ryuji were here to back her up (or even Morgana, since he’d opted to stay in the real world). All Ann really needed was an extra set of eyes.

One step at a time: she didn’t have to worry about Kamoshida until he released the volleyball team for the day. For now, all Ann could do was loiter.

She considered her phone. She _could_ just call for backup - honestly, when she set her own pride aside, she knew that she _should_. But it was still a little too early. Akira couldn’t just tell his parole officer he needed to leave their meeting to go prep a heist. Ryuji couldn’t do anything either: he’d still be coming in from the ghetto.

If she called Shirley, she’d duck out of practice and come help. But that would definitely mean that she’d have to explain everything to her. Not just the Metaverse - though that was probably a big enough thing on its own. All the rest…

‘So for basically as long as I’ve been at Ashford, I’ve been low-to-high-key sexually harassed by Kamoshida! And he’s definitely been abusing the cleaning crew - that’s also why Shiho tried to kill herself, by the way. Oh, and did I mention that I’m half-Japanese? That’s why I’ve never been able to go public with any of that!’

… no, better to leave Shirley in the dark for now. Which left just Ann, her goal, and the dragon in her way.

Looking at it objectively, Ann knew she _should_ just leave and come back.

But didn’t that mean that he won? If there was a space she was going to avoid just because he might be there?

That was only a battle. Ann should’ve been thinking about the war, and _she was_. But also she couldn’t bear the thought of giving him one more victory, however small. It was a conundrum.

Especially because bumming around the gym hallways didn’t feel like winning. It _felt_ like impatiently waiting for Shirley to get out of practice. Like trying to to fill the time without having to talk to any of Ashford’s gym rats - who tended to not _quite_ be her scene.

But it also felt like being back in the palace - but without Carmen. Back when it was just her and the danger. Like she was waiting to go charging into the belly of the beast, and just hope that it’d somehow turn out okay for her.

So it was boring, but also a little scary. The perfect combo.

Ann tried to shake these nerves out of her head. She had to get it together. There was a job to do, and new, better Ann wasn’t going to shrink away from it. It was _just_ a waiting game.

She’d visit Shirley at practice. Then she’d even have an alibi if, for some reason, someone ended up sniffing around her being here.

Her footsteps sounded like cannons, alone in the hall. It was only paranoia that was telling her that they could hear her from the gym. Its wildest claim was that _Kamoshida_ could hear her. That he wasn’t so wrapped up in his own kingdom right now that he would notice anything outside. That he would somehow know that it was Ann. That, what, he would for some reason just come charging out after her?

Absurd. Stupid. But also, who could say at this point?

“Well, this is a surprise.” Ann had worked herself up so much, she almost jumped out of her skin at the voice. Mercifully, she swallowed her yelp before it saw the light of day. She could only imagine explaining why she was such a nervous wreck, supposedly safe and secure on campus.

Especially to Lelouch and his ever present, condescending smirk. He was right. They _didn’t_ see much of each other at the gym. That _might_ have been because Ann generally avoided it unless she had a class, and he just generally avoided class. She actually had no idea if they had one in this building together - come to think of it, she couldn’t remember so much as seeing him run.

“Lulu,” she acknowledged, putting some pep into her voice, “I figured you’d’ve already headed out.”

He shrugged, turning his attention back at a glass display case housing Ashford’s various plaques and trophies, “Rivalz has his new job. So that’s me stuck here until he gets a day off.”

“Poor thing,” Ann headed up to his side. Any port in a storm, “Figured you’d get some push ups in in the meantime?”

Lelouch chuckled, “Oh yeah, that was the plan.” Smacking his head, he added, “But then I realized I’d forgotten workout clothes. What a shame.” She gave that a token smile, and he asked, “What about you? Waiting on Shirley?”

“Something like that…” she mumbled. A gold medal for last year’s volleyball team glistened in her eyes, distracting her. It wasn’t really much of an accomplishment if it was only competing with other schools in Britannia’s Asian colonies.

“Something _like_ that?” Lelouch observed, “So not _that_?”

“Hush,” Ann said. He was just being petulant - he wasn’t interrogating her, wasn’t trying to find her out. Even if he’d known she was hiding something, what would he care?

And yet he said, “I thought you might still be bothering the volleyball team.”

Shit. Ann glanced at him. Lelouch’s face tended to rest on ‘bored and aloof.’ He could coax it out to acknowledge you were there, but he generally let it do what it wanted. So as it did now, it usually found its way back there in a hurry.

He didn’t _care_ that she was ‘bothering’ them. But he did _know_. How? “You heard about that?”

He smiled at her, in that affable way that never reached his eyes, “Ms. Lindbeck confronted me about it before class today. She wanted the council to stop you… uh… I believe she said ‘snooping around the team.’” He shrugged, “I’d give you an exact quote, but I think she said some things about you she didn’t mean.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Ann huffed. The investigation, such as it was, had ultimately been pointless: she hoped that she wouldn’t catch any more heat from it than a couple of catty comments, “She’s such a bitch…”

Lelouch nodded in overly solemn agreement, “Imagine how I felt: a few days off, and I come back to _her_ biting my head off.” Nonchalantly, he asked, “Did you ever find out how she broke her glasses?”

“No,” Ann muttered, “Apparently it was none of my business.”

“Well, I guess that might’ve been true,” Lelouch closed his eyes, sighing, “I wondered if maybe someone spiked a ball into her face.”

Yeah. That’s what Ann had figured. And it was just one of dozens of suspicious incidents leaving their marks on the volleyball team. Once you were actually looking for signs of abuse, you started to notice just how much more often they got injured, compared to the other sports clubs.

And all that was Kamoshida holding himself back.

Ann’s brow furrowed at the thought: was he getting worse? Not that it was _worse_ to hurt Britannian students than Japanese ones, no matter what Britannia thought. But was he getting, for lack of a better word, braver? Was his field of acceptable targets broadening?

Or had things always been like this, and Ann had only seen her piece of his mosaic?

She breathed. Either way, soon it would end.

For now, though, she gave Lelouch an awkward smile, “Not much we can do about that if she’s not willing to talk about it, right?”

“I suppose not,” he said, “You wouldn’t think that many people would be willing to bend over backwards to protect a former Eleven.”

_That_ gave Ann pause. Lelouch had this way of just suddenly shocking you with something insightful and heavy. Or he’d just give some hint that he knew a little more than his classmates. And so much of that was just that obnoxious ego he didn’t even _try_ to hide. It was the rest that Ann wondered about.

But now wasn’t the time to get into it. Now was the time for fake smiles and fake ignorance, “Well. If nobody’s saying anything about him, maybe it’s just because there’s nothing to say.”

It tasted vaguely like a betrayal. What’s more, it didn’t seem to convince Lelouch, “Maybe.” He pointed into the display case, “Look at that.”

Ann did. In a gilded frame there was a photo of a group of men. They were much too old to be Ashford students - and also much too Japanese. They posed with… it was hard to describe. ‘Giddy solemnity,’ maybe? Joy that was supposed to be unconstrained was instead reined in by formality. They all kneeled but one: the man in their center, probably the team captain. He raised a gold medal high, like a conquering hero.

It took Ann a second, but she realized that that was Kamoshida. He was a lot younger: he looked broader, and you couldn’t see the wrinkles around his eyes yet. Maybe it was just the picture, but somehow you got the feeling that this man wasn’t yet the monster that Ann knew. The medal he held now adorned the photo itself.

It was strange seeing him _young_ , seeing him not _horrible_ yet. But that apparently wasn’t what Lelouch had wanted her to see, “Why do you think they doctored the flag?”

Ann had completely missed the backdrop: the imperial chimera imposed over a Union Jack. The Britannian flag.

She must’ve been quiet too long. Lelouch explained, “This would be from the 2000 Olympics. That should be the Japanese flag. But whoever decided to display it had it edited to be Britannia’s instead. Why?”

“Japan isn’t a country anymore,” Ann said flatly. With forced brightness, she teased, “Isn’t it illegal for you guys to acknowledge it ever was?”

He ignored her, “If that was all it was, they just wouldn’t bother putting the photo up at all.” Closing his eyes, Lelouch muttered, “They want his accomplishment. It’s not enough that he’s an Honorary Britannian _now_ : Britannia wants to pretend that he _always_ was. For something as trivial as a two-decade-old medal, they want to think of him as earning it _for Britannia_. Everything noteworthy he’s ever done, the emperor just waves a wand and it becomes _Britannian_.”

Ann didn’t think she’d ever heard Lelouch so angry about something. He tried so hard to project an image of not caring about anything, she actually doubted it was even a projection. But for just a second, there was such naked _hate_ in his voice. It actually worried her: there was only so much room in this country for dissent. Gently, she asked, “Lulu, should you be saying this to me?”

“No,” he spat, “I shouldn’t.”

She let him breathe for a few seconds. It also gave her time to consider what he’d said, “You’re right, though.”

“I know,” Lelouch said. His voice was a little more relaxed, a little more _him_ now, “And that’s why people defend him now. Because now that Britannia’s claimed him, he has to be a model example of an imperial subject. If he’s not, they’ll pretend he is.”

And what would they do when _he_ was the one calling for him to be punished? Akira had questioned whether anything would happen at all. Britannia could be brutal and unfair, but Ann still had trouble seeing that, “Or they’ll just disown him.”

For some reason, Lelouch laughed at that, “True.”

There was silence. It was actually one of the most comfortable ones that had ever been between the two of them. Usually, when Ann and Lelouch were alone together, there was the specter of whatever work he’d (or they’d) been blowing off for the student council hanging over them. Now they could just quietly resent this awful country together.

She asked, “Is… that why you’re here?” He gave her a questioning look, and she twirled a finger to encompass the gym, “You’re… investigating Kamoshida too?”

Lelouch grimaced, and he let out a more nervous laugh, “No, actually. There’s… well, I doubt there’s much _I_ can do about that.”

And it wasn’t like it would affect _him_ , so why should he care outside of the abstract? Ann shouldn’t have been disappointed. What else could she have expected? Yet she was.

He rubbed the back of his head. At least he was _embarrassed_ of being selfish, “I… found out I’m failing Japanese.”

“That’ll happen when you never come to class.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, “I was going to ask Kamoshida- _sensei_ to let me slip by with a C.”

Ann could only dream of ever feeling so entitled, “Which he’ll do because…?”

Lelouch shrugged. In much better Japanese than Ann expected, he said, “I already speak the language, for one thing.”

He was just full of surprises. In the same language, Ann replied, “That’s actually pretty good.”

“Thanks.” She’d half expected him to get tripped up after that, but apparently, this was just going to be a chance to speak Japanese today, “I learned it when my family first came here. Yours isn’t bad either.”

Well, of course it wasn’t. The Takamäki household had been multilingual for as long as Ann had been alive - even back when it was still the Takamaki household. That wasn’t exactly something she could tell Lelouch, though, “So if you’re so good at it, why not just show up and get an easy A?”

“Honestly?” he ran a hand through his hair, “I’ve just never really been a fan of minstrel shows. Watching him caper like an idiot in front of the class is nauseating.”

Ann shifted uncomfortably. That made a certain kind of sense, but didn’t it miss the heart of the _real_ issues with that class? “It’s… worse when he _stops_ acting.”

“I’m sure, _Ann_ -chan.” She flinched, and hated that sad little smile Lelouch gave her by way of apology. ‘Oh, sorry I can’t do anything. Won’t, really.’ She wondered how much he knew, or at least suspected. He was just so casually apathetic, did it even matter one way or the other? “But you get my point. It’s hard to care about his classes, thinking about what he represents.”

“What _isn’t_ hard for you to care about?” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it was worth it for the flicker of surprise that Lelouch deigned to show her. Ann shot him a challenging look: what, was he not used to being called out on his bullshit?

Credit where credit was due, he laughed it off easily enough, “What indeed.”

Talking to him was a mistake. _Shirley_ had looked too closely at Lelouch, and somehow become completely and inexplicably enamored of him. She must not have listened to him. Ann did, and it was just so… so frustrating. Her face felt hot, and absurdly she wished for Carmen to back her up, “Lulu, you might think that it makes you _smarter_ than everyone else that you… I dunno, that you _notice more._ ” He raised an amused eyebrow, and she almost punched him, “But if you don’t _do_ anything, you’re just as bad as the people who don’t _see_ anything.”

Ann turned on a heel: she would rather let anxiety take her again than deal with him. It _wasn’t_ because his disinterest in helping reflected how she’d been. _That_ hadn’t been indifference, that had been helplessness. And it still stung. Maybe Lelouch was helpless too: maybe he too saw more of what was wrong with the world than others, but couldn’t change any of it. Ann could have felt sympathy for that. But he just acted so superior for seeing what he saw. It was the _gloating_ she couldn’t stand.

“What would you propose I do?” Lelouch asked once her back was to him. Ann couldn’t decide if that was mockery or a genuine question, “Kamoshida- _sensei_ seems secure in his position from where I’m standing. And without any concrete _evidence_ …” She could hear his ‘what can you do?’ shrug.

A part of her wanted to tell him where he could stick his _evidence_. It was on the tip of her tongue, but then something practical blossomed there instead, “… text me after you meet with him. Once he leaves the gym.”

“What do you hope you’ll find?” he asked.

“What do you care?” she shot back. Lelouch made a conciliatory noise, and Ann left before he could try and get the last word.

The worst part was that she’d have to apologize later. Like he cared about _that_ either. But it wouldn’t be for him, but her own sake: assuming he ever showed up to a student council meeting again, they’d have to work together. As it stood right now, it’d be too awkward.

More people began filtering into the halls as clubs let out for the day, but the doors to the main gymnasium stayed shut. Ann busied herself with her phone after a brief, doomed attempt to cram for a history quiz tomorrow. It didn’t feel fair that they had to worry about Washington’s Rebellion at the same time that they were preparing the heist of their lives.

Her mind kept wandering back to the display case, and the younger Kamoshida’s grin. Maybe memory was making it more wolfish than it had been, to match what he’d become. But the similarities _were_ there. He was a man whose strength had pulled him to the top of the world. Just like his shadow imagined. Had his desires started distorting that early, then? Maybe Britannia hadn’t laid the groundwork for his palace at all, only given it space to grow.

And maybe that meant _they_ would be as horrified by the secrets he’d locked away in there as Ann was.

Ann’s phone prodded her away from that trail of thought. To her surprise, Lelouch had come through, ‘He just left the gym. Good luck.’

She dropped everything, making a beeline for the volleyball court. Other than the pool it was the most expansive of Ashford’s indoor sports areas. It was also, more importantly, connected to where they kept supplies for their various clubs.

Thanks to the nearly free rein that Ashford gave those clubs, it was simply impractical to leave it locked. It wasn’t like anyone could really _steal_ them: the school was surrounded by a steel wall and had who knew how many guards on duty at any given time.

It was still a stroke of luck that the marksman’s club (which had mostly devolved into a ‘weapons enthusiast’ club) had managed to forget to lock up _their_ stuff. You’d think they’d have higher standards than that.

That wasn’t entirely fair: none of the weapons Ann found in the supply closet were, strictly speaking, real. They _looked_ real, she was pretty sure they shot BBs. In any case, she wouldn’t want to be caught sneaking one of them out. Two model Glocks and a St. George fit into her bag. A part of her wanted to try for another of the rifles, but the corners of what she had already stuck out against her bag. And now that she thought about it, they were just going to jostle against each other and oh god this was never going to work.

But that was okay! That was why it was _her_ doing this job and not one of the boys. If anyone asked _her_ what she was doing with a bunch of realistic looking guns, the worst she’d probably get was told off. Ryuji or Akira might legitimately end up in jail. So she was the best person for the job - the _only_ person for the job.

And if she kept telling herself that, then carrying them across campus wouldn’t bother her at all. Definitely.

Ann hefted the bag over her shoulder, giving it another tug when the weight proved more than she’d expected. This seemed like a lot of work and a lot of nerves for some _fake guns_.

If Morgana was right, they wouldn’t _need_ real ones in the Metaverse. It was based on cognition anyway, the shadows were going to _expect_ someone breaking in to come armed and fully loaded, and thinking would make it so. The extra firepower wasn’t necessarily _essential_ , but it took some of the pressure off their personas. It would let them stay in the Metaverse for longer.

The halls of the gym always filled up after clubs let out. Ann had to make her way through hordes of tired, sweaty classmates to get back out. When she did, and fresh air replaced the smell of exhaustion, the elation finally hit her. This was it, the first step.

It wasn’t a _big_ first step. But now that it was made, what a relief. 

* * *

**August 9, 2017 A.T.B. - Kallen**

The darkness was starting to get to her again. Kallen closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She counted to ten, then counted back. She was fine, she was safe, she was exactly where she needed to be. When she opened her eyes, there was still darkness, but it was manageable now.

You wouldn’t expect it, but getting _into_ the ghetto was always the hardest part. It should’ve been the easiest thing in the world: who was going to ask Kallen Stadtfeld where she was going and why? Her father was the Count of Saitama, who _exactly_ was going to question her comings and goings?

No one. Out loud. To her.

But if a checkpoint guard asked themselves what she was doing there, maybe they’d ask their partner. Maybe _then_ it would get back to their superior, and back up the line until finally, someone was asking Count Stadtfeld why his daughter was prancing off into a warzone. If they were observant enough, maybe they’d even ask why she had a _Nambu_ hidden in her coat.

Assuming he ever stopped slobbering over the viceroy’s boots long enough to notice the world around him, the Count would find himself surprised that he had no answers to questions like that. Kallen would never bet on him doing so. But why take the risk?

If the right people ever talked to the right people, then it was over. The more links in the chain that Kallen could remove, the better.

Like so many other things, it had been easier when Naoto was alive. Back then, her brother would just drive them into the ghetto himself. If a guard dared ask where they were going, he’d just smile and say something like, “My sister’s a bleeding heart: always makes sure we do charity work for the Elevens.”

He’d been so good at this: he could tell the Invaders the _truth_ and still walk away. It had felt like Naoto could walk away from _anything_. There was always a plan: if he didn’t already have one, it’d burst into being in the moment. No hesitation, no backing down. No worries.

They all should’ve known they’d been gambling. That they wouldn’t win forever.

Kallen counted to ten again. No need to work herself up. What was done was done. The cause needed to survive any setback - any loss. If it could, she could.

Alone in the dark, Kallen could afford a few seconds of grief. She just had to get over them before the car stopped.

They rolled over something, and Kallen was bumped up against the false bottom of the trunk. She cursed quietly to herself: she couldn’t wait until she had her license. Though even once she had it, would her cover survive going back and forth from the Stadtfeld manor outside Tokyo into the ghetto - to her _real_ family?

Kallen Stadtfeld was a weak girl who had been utterly broken by her brother’s death. She was a darling little dainty ingenue, prone to fainting and sickness. Sometimes, the poor health brought on by her mental weakness kept her out of school for days and even weeks at a time.

Kallen Kozuki hated Stadtfeld a little, even though she was her own invention. People in the Settlement were so ready to believe that she was an invalid. Oh, of _course_ she was so distraught that she spent all her days either sobbing into a pillow or too weak to move. It was perfectly _natural_ for a noble Britannian girl to live like that.

They made so much noise about only the strongest surviving, and then allowed for pathetic _bullshit_ like that at every turn.

When Kallen had come back to the Stadtfeld estate alone for the first time, and it had really hit her that that was how she’d come back every time from now on, she had allowed herself _one_ night of crying. Anything more would be selfish.

Naoto had told her what you did with grief. You held it close to you, buried it as deep as you could. You turned it into anger, and you let that anger carry you forward.

Some days that was easier than others. And it _never_ helped when the best thing you could do was wait. 

Kallen stiffened as light filtered in past the edges of the false bottom. They’d reached the checkpoint. As always, she felt the urge to ready her weapon, and suppressed it accordingly. Any careless movement could be the one that gave them away.

On paper, this felt like such an unnecessary precaution. Kallen Stadtfeld could go wherever she wanted. No one would question her riding along with an Eleven driver. They wouldn’t even start to wonder if there were more in the car with her. The Stadtfelds were wealthy enough: they’d assume the others were servants. They’d just see it as the natural order of things: Elevens sowed, Britannians reaped.

No, what they’d question was the gap between her going into and out of the ghetto. Someone would finally ask out loud what a noble girl was doing there, staying for sometimes weeks at a time. Better to not have Kallen on the record at all: it would only raise suspicions.

Then again, the border guards might also have some questions if they searched some Elevens’ car and found Kallen crammed into the trunk. She held her breath, waiting for the light to fade. There was always this brief, terrifying certainty that they were about to be found out.

And when the trunk slammed shut and darkness returned, it always passed, and she could breathe again. They were in the clear.

Nagata always took the ghetto roads as carefully as he could, but Kallen _still_ always hit her head on something before they stopped. Street patrols got thicker and meaner outside the Settlement, so they couldn’t just pull over and convert her from cargo to passenger. It still sucked.

Eventually, they would turn down a dark alley. Or they’d find some former club that had turned into a warehouse after occupation and then into a ruin after the Britannians got whatever they wanted from it. Until then, she’d remember that every bump along the way was another scar on her country she had to pay the Invaders back for.

Finally they stopped. Kallen closed her eyes - it didn’t change much. She wished it let her hear what was going on outside: she caught snippets. The door opened and slammed shut, but had Nagata stepped out of the vehicle or been frogmarched? He was speaking, muffled and casual, but was he talking to the others or putting on false airs for soldiers?

The trunk opened, and Kallen braced herself for the worst. Instead, she heard Nagata’s voice, “Coast’s clear Kozuki- _chan_. Don’t shoot.”

She instantly relaxed: he wouldn’t be speaking Japanese in front of the Invaders. He removed the false bottom, and Kallen could finally stretch. It always almost felt weird to be able to see again. Was everything really so bright, or had her eyes just adjusted to the shadows?

They seemed to be on the fourth floor of a former parking garage. There was a certain drama to it, meeting in secret in a place like this. Like a scene from a movie - just before the cops came in and busted them all. Before the war, Shinjuku had been, of all things, an entertainment district - supposedly a really seedy one at that. Once upon a time, this building would’ve been packed with all the luxury cars of the elite at play. Now it was only Nagata’s taxi and Ohgi’s beaten up tow truck.

Kallen hopped out of the trunk, taking another cursory look around. No flashing headlights, no roaring knightmares. They were still safe for now.

Nagata put a hand on her shoulder, and he gave her what was supposed to be a calming smile. With his long hair and feminine features, there was an absurd second where he almost looked motherly, “We’re safe. Relax.”

She made a face at him, and he laughed. He’d come on board a little after she’d started going on missions with Naoto - three years now. Kallen had been the team baby back then, and for some of their cell, that hadn’t changed. He ruffled her hair (the nerve!) and headed towards the edge of the lot, where Ohgi stood staring out at what remained of their city.

Kallen huffed, but followed him, rifling through her pockets for her headband. There probably wasn’t time to spike up her hair into Kozuki’s burning mane. It would have to hang lank and dead, like Stadtfeld’s. She could still keep it out of her eyes.

Outside, the setting sun was starting to cast a shadow over the ghetto. None of the street lamps were on yet, but that didn’t always signify anything. From the bustle, it looked like shifts were changing: some folks going to work, others being herded back to their pens.

Ohgi forced on a smile to greet them. Their leader was only maybe halfway through his twenties, but the war had put tired wrinkles around his eyes. He’d earned them: he’d been fighting since Surrender. It still hadn’t broadened his shoulders quite enough to fill Naoto’s old jacket, “Kallen, Nagata. You made it.”

Kallen nodded, and Nagata said, “Seems that way.”

“Any trouble getting in?”

He laughed, “I think some of the guards knew me from work. Had to drive a couple of them home from a bar the other night. Honestly, I thought they were too far gone to recognize me.”

“You shouldn’t be picking up soldiers, Nagata- _san_.” Kallen hadn’t even seen Niijima - she tended to lurk in a corner at meetings. She didn’t bother to look up from her notebook, where she furiously scribbled away. But she always had some comment or correction to make.

“Just trying to keep my cover, Niijima- _chan_ ,” Nagata said with a sigh. After a moment, he shrugged, adding lightly, “And, y’know. Make rent.”

Niijima made a sound - without words, it was somewhere between ‘I suppose that’s true’ and ‘still though.’ Not for the first time, Kallen wondered what she was writing in there. Notes for the team, or something for her own cover? They rarely talked - it was hard to tell what she even did outside of the resistance.

Nagata took it as a win. He took another look around the lot, gesturing to the emptiness, “Reds aren’t here yet?”

Ohgi shook his head, pointing a warning finger his way, “Remember not to call them that. Miyano- _san_ ’s got his pride.”

“Do we have any idea what they want?” Kallen asked. She didn’t know all of the politics - the way she saw it, there shouldn’t be _any_ politics in resistance. Just _us_ and _them_. Shigure Miyano and his ‘Sons of Kotoku’ disagreed. The way she understood it, they hated Britannia, but they also hated the JLF - who were the ultimate backers of Kallen’s cell. She’d actually traded fire with the Sons a couple of times over the last few years.

They’d apparently made contact with Ohgi, and had some kind of business proposition. The details of which they held back until they could meet face to face.

But Ohgi was the leader, so he _should_ have been able to divine some kind of theory. He shouldn’t have just given an embarrassed shrug, “Your guess is as good as mine. I’d heard a rumor that Britannia crushed them a few months ago.”

Nagata scratched at the back of his head, “Maybe they did, and whoever’s left wants to team up?”

“Here’s hoping,” Ohgi said in tones that didn’t inspire much hope, “It’d be a bit of a coup if they did. We could always use more help.

“Speaking of which, I have some prospects for you to vet, Ohgi- _san_ ,” Niijima said, “Remind me to speak with you about them after the meeting.”

Ohgi always seemed to pause to turn over any new information. Kallen knew he’d never asked for leadership, but sometimes it looked more like hesitation than consideration, “We’ll talk.” Niijima clicked her tongue, her face impassive. Kallen wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean.

The Sons of Kotoku only made them wait for another ten or so minutes, which devolved mostly into smalltalk between her and Ohgi. Niijima was never much for conversation, and Nagata was content to join some of the others playing cards in the bed of the truck.

When the trucks started to arrive, Kallen’s first thought was ‘military convoy,’ and she went for her sidearm. It would do next to nothing against the worst Britannia could dish out, but she would go down fighting. The gasping, grumbling transport trucks had Japanese drivers though, and she relaxed. These were the gargantuan vehicles Britannia used to transport knightmare frames. They guarded that technology too jealously to let it into the hands of Numbers.

Kallen had spent months on devicer training after they’d managed to capture a borderline ancient Kent class knightmare. The machine had been an ugly little thing: it was smaller and looked less human than anything else Britannia fielded. It had been functionally obsolete even before the Invasion - by now, even non-military police were using Glasgows. And they’d still protected it with their lives, because having any knightmare brought the team that much closer to punching in Britannia’s weight class. They’d taken no chances with it: Kallen’s biometric compatibility with the machine had been only three percent greater than Naoto’s, and he’d still insisted she be its pilot.

‘Kenta,’ as Kallen had taken to calling it, had served her well for maybe a half dozen missions. All were carefully selected so as not to pit it against a more recent model. Kenta had finally gone up in smoke the same day they’d lost Naoto. It had been a small miracle that Kallen had gone with it: that early generation of knightmares was known for the unreliability of their ejection systems.

Knightmares were Britannia’s edge - the engineers who’d leaked the technology to Europe and China had been publicly executed. When they found out the _resistance_ had them, they wasted no time remedying that.

So Kallen’s heart skipped a beat when the trucks’ rear doors opened with a metallic hiss, and revealed six Glasgows lying dormant.

They were just as blocky as the Kent had been, but spaced it out more. The Kent had looked like someone put legs and arms on a tank: Glasgows were giant metal men. Their heads were massive tubes which Kallen had seen open up (she assumed they were radar of some kind). They replaced treads with a landspinner attached to the ‘ankle,’ allowing for faster movement. These also rotated to aid the machine’s mobility: Kallen had heard of Glasgows scaling buildings by splitting their legs to bridge the gap between them. That just seemed like it would defy physics too much, though.

Glasgows were also the first mass produced knightmares outfitted with fully articulated hands. They could therefore be equipped like a much bigger footsoldier, and be outfitted for almost any combat situation. None of the machines the Sons of Kotoku had brought seemed to have any of the massive weaponry built for Glasgows, but each still came equipped with a slash harken - a huge cable mounted in the machine’s ‘chest’ which could pierce through multiple layers of tungsten. The cockpit for a Glasgow was a massive hunch that reminded Kallen of a backpack. In the rare occasions a knightmare went down, the pilot could eject the pack, rocketing away to fight another day.

A part of Kallen wanted to laugh: of _course_ they’d bothered to paint them red. The rest was just impressed: one would’ve been a game changer. Six turned the Sons of Kotoku into an army.

They moved like an army, too. There were only seven of them - Kallen had half expected dozens to pour out of the trucks. But they had actual uniforms: dark khakis reminiscent of the early 20th century’s Imperial Army, and a crimson armband. Kallen and her team only had whatever mishmash of clothes they figured might let them blend into crowds. They marched into position, standing at attention to blockade their machines.

Their leader - he must’ve been the infamous Miyano, he was the oldest and the only one with the flat cap to complete his ensemble - passed before them and waved a hand. They assumed ‘at ease’ with one motion. Impressive.

Kallen gulped. Were they out of their league here?

Miyano strode forward, called out in a raspy voice, “Which of you is Ohgi Kaname?”

Ohgi saluted, “That would be me. And I assume you’re Miyano Shigure?”

The other members of Kallen’s cell pulled themselves out of their - comparatively minuscule - truck to back their leader as he approached Miyano. They didn’t have any of the Sons’ uniformity, but they made up for it with swagger and bravado. Kallen imagined herself as seven feet tall, tried to carry herself that way as she fell into step with Ohgi. She reached for her pistol, wondering if it would be a better warning to have it out, or just obviously readied. There was still the chance this was an ambush, after all.

Miyano surveyed Ohgi, who made maybe too much of a show of returning the assessment. He was on the latter side of middle age, with greying sideburns and a thin white mustache. Ohgi, apparently, only merited a shallow bow, “First of all, thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Ohgi- _doshi_.”

“None of us can afford to turn down an offer for help, Miyano- _doshi_ ,” Kallen flinched a little, she hoped not visibly. Naoto would’ve insisted on ‘ _san_ ’ over ‘comrade.’ Then again, the Sons would never have bothered talking to Naoto, “And I have to admit, you’ve got me curious.”

Miyano’s lip curled upward, “I’ll admit I haven’t been quite forthcoming: secrecy is our greatest weapon against the Invaders. You understand.” He didn’t wait for a response, or for even a moment more of smalltalk, “My sources within the Britannian military have tipped me off to an anomaly in troop movements. Within the week, the Invader intends to transport a canister of poison gas from Tokyo to Okinawa.”

He stopped, as if that was enough. Ohgi raised an eyebrow, saying simply, “Britannia moves supplies around all the time.”

“Not as many as my people suggest,” Miyano set his jaw, saying, “I’m told that they’re attempting to move enough gas to wipe out the Shinjuku ghetto.”

Ohgi let it hang in the air for just a moment too long. Kallen couldn’t blame him: she could barely believe it. If this was true, Britannia had finally gotten tired of trying to beat Japan into submission. _This_ was a grim, horrifying solution to the problem of resistance. _This_ was preparation for an act of genocide.

“What do we do, then?” Ohgi finally asked.

“I should think that obvious: we stop them,” Miyano said, “The movement is to happen on the fifteenth: when it happens, our two groups will make a joint effort to seize the gas before it can find its way out of Tokyo.”

“Whatever you need,” Ohgi said. A part of Kallen worried that that promised too much: the Sons weren’t _friends_ per se. But the rest of her agreed: whatever it took to thwart whatever Britannia had planned.

Miyano paused. When he did speak, he did so slowly, “What I _need_ is for you to make good on my people’s efforts. It is my intention on August fifteenth for my men to mount an assault within the Settlement. This, I hope, will draw Britannia’s ire away from a secondary group that will intercept the convoy transporting the poison gas. You, Ohgi- _doshi_ , are that secondary group.”

Ohgi considered that. He only sounded a little dazed when he said, “That’s… of course. We’ll help however we can.” Before he could hand off a blank check, he added, “But my team doesn’t have any knightmare frames. Unless you can get _all_ the Settlement’s garrison after you, I don’t know how much good we’ll actually be able to do.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything from you without the proper equipment,” Miyano said, gesturing behind himself to the Sons’ knightmares, “And that is why I intend to supply you with one of these Glasgows. The rest we’ll need for our distraction, but you’ll need firepower of your own - and a show of good faith.”

“Kallen,” in all the confusion of these new developments, Ohgi forgot professionalism and honorifics, “That’s all you.”

It was all she could do to nod. She’d never even imagined a second chance in the cockpit of a knightmare. That kind of power came about once in a lifetime. Asking for it again, asking for _more_ was just asking too much. But here it was. The chance to to have it, _and_ potentially save Japan… it was unthinkable.

You didn’t walk away from that kind of responsibility. You grabbed with both hands and prayed it would be enough.

Miyano turned his gaze on Kallen, giving her the same cold, assessing look he’d directed at Ohgi. In the dark of the garage, it was hard to tell what exactly was in his eyes, but Kallen got the distinct impression she wasn’t living up to his expectations of their team’s go-to devicer. That wasn’t much of a surprise: maybe she was too young. Maybe Miyano was an old soldier who questioned giving such power to a woman. Maybe he could tell at a glance that her father was Britannian, and worried like so many that it had left a stain on her soul.

Kallen didn’t need to know. Knowing what was supposedly wrong with her would only light the wrong fire under her. Britannia was the enemy here: the only enemy worth fighting. Saying that out loud would only come off defensive, and make Ohgi look bad by speaking out of turn. Still, she tried to project it from her eyes.

She couldn’t tell if it got through: Miyano was just as stone faced when he turned his attention back to their leader, “I’ll be leaving Setsuna- _doshi_ in your care leading up to the mission.” The shortest, tannest of the Sons saluted, “He will assist you with the Glasgow’s maintenance, and prepare your devicer to pilot it.”

“I have experience operating a knightmare frame, sir.” Kallen said before she could think twice, “I’m sure I can figure out this one on my own.”

“Nonetheless,” Miyano said simply, “These machines were captured at great expense to my men. I will not have their sacrifice be in vain. Therefore, I insist that we do anything that might increase our chances of success, however slightly.”

Kallen set her jaw. That was all perfectly logical, but it still sat on her shoulders like distrust. Ohgi gave her a warning look, and she felt more guilty than indignant. This wasn’t the place to be putting pride first.

Miyano went on to detail what they knew about the route that the convoy would be taking. Military highways always seemed to pass over or around the ghetto. The Invaders must’ve found it handy when they were chasing fleeing rebel cells, but it also meant anything they had to move had to pass briefly through grasping range. That was half of how the resistance kept itself stocked - even if it so often meant trading lives for supplies.

If all went to plan, the Sons would be doing most of the bleeding this time. They would infiltrate the Settlement, seizing control of a government building (Miyano was vague about which one) and making as much noise as they could to draw the military to them. This would, hopefully, take some of the pressure off of Kallen’s team to hold up and steal the transport carrying the gas.

“And what do we do with it?” Ohgi asked, “It feels like the best thing would be to dispose of it somewhere, but where can we safely-”

Miyano chuckled, “Well. You may certainly do so with your half, Ohgi- _doshi_. I or my successor will come to collect the rest: we’ve plans of our own for it.”

Judging by his hesitation, Ohgi wanted to contest that, but was having trouble piecing together a good argument. He settled on, “Are we sure that’s a good idea? Just getting it is going to be risky enough. The longer we hold onto it, the longer Britannia has to get it back.”

“The situation is fluid.” It didn’t sound like it was. Miyano reached into his pocket, producing a small flip phone, which he tossed to Ohgi, “And I’ll keep you updated as it develops. But for the time being, the Sons of Kotoku expect that we will receive our share of the spoils at the end of this.”

Ohgi looked at the device like it was a snake, and finally nodded, “Fine then.”

Miyano saluted, and his men matched the gesture, “Long live the revolution.”

Ohgi returned it - they all did, after a clumsy moment’s thought, “Long live Japan.”

The Sons only stayed for a few minutes after that: one of their transports only had one Glasgow in it. As promised, they left that behind, the machine staring solemnly out at them. Miyano’s boy who’d stayed behind saluted again. He must’ve been even younger than Kallen, his voice cracked a little when he said, “When you’re ready, Kallen- _doshi_ , we can register you into the system.”

“Be with you in a minute,” she said. The team was circling up, and that struck her as more important, at least for now.

Ohgi sighed. You could see the pressures of representing the whole team being lifted off his shoulders. He looked from one of them to the next, asking, “So. What do we think?”

Kallen could never decide whether this sort of thing was good leadership or not. On the one hand, everyone got a bit of a say. On the other, shouldn’t a good leader already have an idea of what was and wasn’t good for the team?

She couldn’t say that without completely undermining him, though. So instead she said, “It doesn’t really matter, right? It’s gotta get done, so we’ll get it done.” Some of the others nodded along in agreement.

“Ought to figure out if we can’t screw them over on game day,” For a wonder, Tamaki kept his voice down for their guest. He reminded Kallen of some kind of yappy little dog - the kind that had a bigger voice than you’d expect, and thought that it made _them_ bigger too, “If we got a hold of that much gas, we might actually be a major player one ‘a these days.”

“It’d serve the Reds right too,” Inoue said, glaring over her shoulder at the boy. He, oblivious, was inspecting the Glasgow, “The hell does Miyano get off looking down on us?”

“Seriously!” Tamaki shouted. Ohgi coughed conspicuously, and he took the hint not to go further. For now, they were on the same side.

“Even if we do only keep half, this is too big a reward to turn down,” Niijima said, matter-of-factly as if she’d said ‘the sun will rise,’ “With a knightmare frame _and_ the gas, we might be able to strike a real blow against the Invader.”

Tamaki laughed, “Man, we could take out half a Settlement with that shit!” No one else joined in. They _could_. It might even be the fastest way to convince Britannia that it was time to go. But that didn’t mean it was the _best_ way.

“We’ll talk about the gas when we have it,” Ohgi said. Kallen mentally replaced ‘talk’ with ‘argue.’ Their leader was the biggest stickler about the ‘rules of war.’ And abstractly, that was admirable, but Japan had already tried fighting by those rules. Besides, it wasn’t like _Britannia_ would be shy about poisoning a couple million Japanese, so what was the harm in returning the favor?

Niijima arched an eyebrow, “I don’t think there’s much for us to talk about, Ohgi- _san_. We’re going to be given a weapon. We should use it.” That was the kind of ruthless determination you had to make in war. Try as she might though, Kallen couldn’t _quite_ get there. Maybe they could just drop it on a Britannian military base. That felt more fair.

“We’ll talk about the gas _when we have it_ ,” Ohgi repeated. It was maybe the most authoritative he’d been all day, “We have to get it first. One thing at a time.”

Tamaki scratched at his stubble - he looked much too bored with the lecture to have really considered what he’d just suggested, “Yeah yeah.”

Niijima shifted her weight to the side in thought. She must’ve decided that she had to accept that, because she turned her attention on Kallen, “I suppose that we’ll be relying on you then. You should probably stay in the ghetto until we’re ready to go.”

Whatever had happened tonight, Kallen had figured she’d have to. Anything beat the gilded lie of Count Stadtfeld’s manor. She nudged Ohgi, “I can crash at yours for a few nights, right?” He nodded absently.

Somewhere in the city below, lights flashed. Nagata glanced in their direction, “Should probably wrap this up. Curfew.”

“Curfew?” Kallen asked. She’d been gone for about a week: it felt like the ghetto had new rules for every _day_.

“After Osaka,” Niijima said, gathering her things, “No public gatherings four or more after sunset. They make an exception for workers, obviously, but we’re expected to go straight home.”

Nagata added, “Speaking of workers, I should get back to the Settlement. Anyone need a ride before then?”

Inoue stretched a little bit, “Let’s take it back to mine. I’m not done taking you guys’ money yet.”

“Whatever: I feel a hot streak coming!” Tamaki said.

Sugiyama chuckled, adjusting his glasses, “Well if Tamaki- _san_ ’s still offering, it’d just be rude not to bleed him dry.”

Tamaki growled, “Screw you, Sugiyama!” without much heat. After a little coaxing (maybe even bullying), Minami was prodded into catching up as well.

“Niijima- _chan_?” Nagata asked, “The guys can walk if you need a ride.”

“Don’t volunteer me, man!” Tamaki shouted.

She only smiled sweetly, “Thank you, but no. I’m going to see what I can find on the streets tonight.”

Ohgi crossed his arms, “Just make sure it’s not trouble. Yoshida, could you you go with her?” Yoshida nodded. He was the biggest, if quietest, of their cell. He cut an imposing enough figure that ‘trouble’ would at least think twice before knocking.

Though Niijima waved him off, “That really won’t be necessary. I can take care of myself, Ohgi- _san_.”

He smiled weakly, “I know. But it’d make _me_ feel better if I knew you had someone with you.”

“I’ll call if I need help,” she said simply, heading for the exit before anyone else could get the last word. Yoshida made a show of rolling his eyes, and followed after her a moment later.

After the others piled into Nagata’s cab, that left only Kallen and Ohgi - their guest aside. It was only a moment to catch up, but they took it anyway. Kallen hadn’t known Ohgi _well_ before the war: he’d just been ‘Naoto’s smart friend.’ But he was familiar. She suspected she filled the same role for him.

They covered the usual topics. How’re you holding up? Fine. How was it being back in school? Fine. You’re sure you wouldn't want to maybe go _permanently_ back to school? Absolutely not.

Ohgi laughed nervously, held up his hands in surrender, “I’m sorry, Kallen. But I just want you to know that you can back out at any time. If it ever gets to be too much-”

She shut him down, “This is my war too, Ohgi. Only one way out now.”

Kallen didn’t let him say anything more to her, calling to Setsuna to introduce her to the Glasgow. The machine loomed high over her as she approached. It looked like it was judging her: she was determined not to be seen wanting.

She had been half right: there were _two_ ways out. The second was just so hard to envision. The Glasgow, proud and imperial, offered her the power to cut through to it.

Kallen would grab it with both hands.

* * *

**August 9, 2017 A.T.B. - Ryuji**

This had already been such a wild week. Ryuji had burst out at the highest of hopes, plummeted the lowest despair, then rocketed back. It was a roller coaster: that was cliché, but his life was a roller coaster of emotion. Before it looped around some more, he _deserved_ a couple of days to catch his breath and relax.

Yes, but on the other hand, fuck that, the wait was killing him.

Ann and Akira and least had stuff to _do_ for preparation. Ryuji had volunteered for both the jobs they were covering, but they ran into the same problem that he had to go back to the ghetto. He was _never_ going to get weapons out of there. Hell, he was never going to have a gun in his bag and not get shot for it.

But there should’ve been _something_ he could do.

It _felt_ like there was something he could do. Some of Captain Kidd must’ve come back with him: electricity pulsed up and down his arms. He had all this nervous energy and no outlet for it.

The only thing that Ryuji had to do for the break in was make sure he could make it. He and Ann had wanted to go take down the palace as soon as possible. Akira and the cat had figured that the next best time would be the tenth: it’d give them time to prepare, and people would be too busy with V11 Day crap to notice they were gone. It still didn’t feel like soon enough, but he’d take it.

Trouble was, they hadn’t schedule Ryuji for V11 Day for his first week. Maybe they’d worried that he’d duck out once he realized that work was work. Hell, if Ryuji hadn’t fallen into the Metaverse, maybe they’d’ve been right to worry.

But that meant that he’d be stuck in the ghetto the night of the infiltration. Ryuji’s pass card wasn’t going to let him into the Settlement on a day he wasn’t working: which just meant he had to get on the schedule. He’d already managed that: yesterday, he’d cornered Mishima during not-so-free period.

Word of Suzui’s suicide attempt had spread like wildfire. The hardest part of dealing with it for Ryuji had been going back into the mindset of someone who was powerless against the world that had brought it on. He could keep his head down, but he knew that he’d be able to look back up again. When he did, he’d set Kamoshida’s world on fire.

Maybe his eyes had been a little wild when he put a hand on Mishima’s shoulder, “Hey, Mishima- _san_. Switch shifts with me.”

Mishima had gone from scared to confused in a hurry. Apparently he’d thought Ryuji was going to take what happened out on _him_. Which seemed ridiculous at a glance, but then again, that was the reality they’d both been dealing with. Just being near a problem could be enough to take the heat for it. Ryuji had filed it away for later: handle Mishima with care.

In the meantime, he’d asked, “Which shifts? Why do you even..?”

“Just trust me: I need tomorrow off,” which had been a lie: it actually didn’t matter which shift he picked up.

“Tomorrow?” Mishima had looked at him like he was crazy, “I… come on, man. At least give me time to mentally prepare…”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Ryuji had said. He’d pretended to think it through, “Listen, I’ll take the holiday. Just do me a solid.”

_That_ was the important part. And it was the part Mishima had taken the longest to consider. He’d rubbed the back of his head, “Ashford… does _crazy_ stuff for holidays, Sakamoto- _kun_. And the company doesn’t pay extra for them, if that’s what you’re-”

“It’s not,” Ryuji had assured him. Honestly, he’d considered the possibility that he might get fired for literally vanishing on the job. He figured he could cross that bridge when they got to it. For Mishima’s benefit, he’d tried to dial back his anticipation, get some exhaustion back into his voice, “Honestly… I just kinda need a day. I can work my butt off after, but… well…”

“No, yeah, I… totally get you. Of course, Sakamoto- _kun_.” Mishima had cut him off before he’d had to diminish what had happened to Suzui by using it as an _excuse_. Ryuji had been ready to hate himself a little for doing that, but he was grateful that he didn’t have to. He’d meant it, from the bottom of his heart, when he thanked Mishima.

The only trouble was that that left him with all of today to just wait. He wasn’t even going to get the chance to see the others. He managed to pass by Akira yesterday at work: they’d met by chance, and Ryuji had let him know that he’d gotten the time off. The cat, who apparently just lived in Akira’s bag now, had told him off for not just texting that information.

Ryuji had made up for that since. He’d been texting their groupchat basically since he got to school. He kept telling himself that he was going to set down his phone and take some notes today. So far, that hadn’t actually happened. The others didn’t _really_ expect him to be focused on _school_ right now, right?

Seriously, though: Kawakami was talking about some Britannians who didn’t like _stamps_ so much they started a war over it. Were any of them supposed to give a shit? She kept emphasizing that this rebellion _failed_ , what did it matter now?

_His_ rebellion wouldn’t. The idea sent a tingle down Ryuji’s spine, and his hand went to his phone again, keeping it under his desk and out of sight.

‘were sure we cant just go 2day?’

No reply. Sure, it had only been a minute, but still, ‘srsly im on th edge of my seat here.’

Ryuji shook his head. That was coming on a little strong. Give them some time to respond.

He set his phone down and didn’t pick it up for five whole minutes.

Just because he didn’t have anything new to say didn’t mean he’d be silenced, ’guuuys.’

A few moments after he hit send, an ellipsis let him know that Ann was typing something. It was still so weird to him that Ann was in his phone now. If someone had told Ryuji she would be at the start of the week, he’d have called them a liar to their face.

He still wasn’t in any mood to get told off, so he added, ‘hey k. u get th stuff?’

At the same time, Ann’s text went through, ‘S, did you skip?’

If Britannia ever tried bugging their conversations, this code was never in a million years going to fool them. Like, it was _just_ the first letter of their surnames. And ‘the stuff,’ now that Ryuji thought about it, was maybe the most suspicious way he could’ve phrased that. It felt better than nothing. But not good enough to keep them out of jail.

Eh, Ann would probably be fine. Like, she’d most likely just be deported back to the EU. A part of Ryuji still wished he could swing that.

The rest wanted to finish the job first, ‘course i didnt!’

‘Then how’re you texting so much?’

‘seats in th back,’ Ryuji grinned to himself, adding a second later, ‘k tell th cat im practicin layin low.’

‘Didn’t you already take today off? How would you even get to the Settlement?’ Ann asked. Which, like, fair point.

But at the same time, Ryuji was… not _smart_ , but resourceful! ‘ill figure sumthin out.’

There was a long lull in responses. Ryuji’s leg bobbed up and down under his desk. He tried setting down the phone again: it seemed like they were switching subjects, so it was a new chance to focus in.

No good: math.

And it felt like the second he got away from it, his phone vibrated. Really, he was just laying low by making sure it didn’t thrum up against the wooden desk.

Akira had finally entered the conversation, ‘Between classes. Don’t have ‘stuff’ yet. Mona’s proud of you. That is definitely what he said.’ Ryuji grimaced. He could only imagine what the cat had _actually_ said. A few seconds later, Akira added, ‘I don’t think we should go today. Mona and I are gonna check something out.’

Ryuji blinked, but it didn’t make an explanation appear, ’?’ He examined his reply. It didn’t _quite_ convey how cryptic that had been, so he added, ‘??????’

‘omg S.’ The glory of text was that Ryuji could imagine Ann laughing indulgently instead of sighing. Inside he knew the truth, ‘But K, what’s up?’

He could also imagine Akira grinning, ‘Why spoil the surprise?’

‘cuz th mystery might kill me?’

‘Your sacrifice will not be in vain.’

Ann sent a square. It must’ve been some kind of icon in her phone. In Ryuji’s no doubt much older model, it was a square. He imagined a ghost or a gravestone, by how she followed up with, ‘RIP S.’

‘cmon man.’ But Akira did not come on. He was, in fact, silent. Classes must’ve resumed, and no matter how much of a badass he was in the Metaverse, Akira was a good boy in the real world. Ryuji almost texted that, but couldn’t figure out a way to keep it in the spirit it was intended.

Which, if he was being honest with himself, was only a little passive aggressive.

There was a lull in their conversation, which gave Ryuji a little time to be embarrassed. This was _big_ for the others, sure. But it wasn’t the only thing happening in their world. Or like, they were just better at multitasking than he was.

Or, a dark voice he thought had been silenced whispered, they were just annoyed with him.

Ann dispelled that worry before it had too much time to fester. Her next texts came outside the groupchat, which was exciting in and of itself. Something she didn’t want Akira seeing? That was exciting, ‘Hey, Ryuji.’ And no codenames!

She was typing for a while after that, probably trying to get the words right. Ryuji’s mind spun with possibilities, but he couldn’t nail down anything concrete. Finally she said, ‘If you’re getting that antsy, can you do me a favor?’

‘sure!’ he replied, too quickly. They must’ve thought he was just hunched over his phone, hanging on their every word.

Which, in fairness, he was. He added, ‘whats the favor?’

Ann typed for a while again after that, finally settling on, ‘Can you see how Shiho’s doing?’

Shit.

They went back and forth a little more after that, but it barely mattered. Ann didn’t need to explain why she wanted him to do it - why she needed _him_ to do it.

From what little he’d been able to find out, Suzui was alive. That should’ve been cause for celebration, but somehow it didn’t feel like enough. Ryuji had no idea what would’ve been. She had been comatose since a little after Ryuji seen her loaded into the Britannian ambulance, but she was stable. As soon as that much was clear, she’d been transferred back to the ghetto’s hospital, where she’d remained ever since. For anyone in the Settlement, she’d suddenly become out of reach.

It wasn’t that Ryuji hadn’t been planning to visit Suzui. He had, obviously. But _after_ he’d taken her revenge. After he could smile at her and say that Kamoshida wouldn’t hurt anyone else, ever again.

That, he knew deep down, was cowardice. Either he’d be triumphant when he saw her again, or he wouldn’t ever have to face her.

If anything, that was part of what carried him to the hospital once school let out. Ryuji had promised himself that he was done running away. Now he had to deliver.

But, he asked himself as he moved through Shinjuku’s always overcrowded sidewalks, wasn’t this a little different? He’d only been able to face down Kamoshida in the Metaverse because of his persona. There was no Kidd here - he doubted Kidd would want anything to do with this.

Ryuji’s weakness was a necessary link in the chain that had put Suzui in that hospital bed. How was he supposed to face her and tell her he’d gotten the strength that would’ve protected her - a day too late?

He stewed in those worries outside of St. Brigid, staring up at holes in the structure that no longer smoked, but had never been fully repaired. It had been named something else before the war, but Ryuji couldn’t conjure up what. It also hadn’t been Shinjuku’s only hospital back then. It had been the only one to survive the trials of war, terrorism, and the viceroy’s indifference to Numbers’ health.

“Eleven.” Shit. Ryuji’s eyes wanted to roll so badly, but as long as he thought about not doing it, he wouldn’t. He turned, faced the music. Two guards - one to interrogate, one to shoot if anything funny happened. All that was old was new again, “Move along or go in. Pick one.”

This one was Ryuji’s own fault. Something had happened up north recently with a hospital and some JLF cell or something like that. A bunch of Brit doctors had gotten killed, and now Britannia had decided to be jumpy about that kind of thing happening again. Fair enough: Ryuji should’ve known there’d be more and more cautious guards outside the building. His own fault for being nervous before going into a hospital.

For just a second, Ryuji pictured flashes of lightning frying them. He bowed, “Yes sir. Sorry, sir.”

It was meek enough to be satisfying. The foremost guard dismisssed him with a gesture of his gun, and Ryuji headed through the front door.

He couldn’t hear it hissing shut behind him: the building was a constant eruption of sound. Mechanical beeps echoed alongside shouts in both English and Japanese. St. Brigid was the only official hospital in Shinjuku - and as such, the only place in Tokyo Elevens could go for above the table medical care. Needless to say, it was chaos.

Was it even possible to visit right now? He’d always heard about people going to see sick or hurt relatives or whatever, but it didn’t feel like anyone could afford the space.

The woman at the reception desk crooked a phone under her chin, simultaneously typing something at one of two computers set in front of her. Ryuji almost turned around and left: everyone here obviously had enough on their plates without his own indulgence.

“Alright then, we’ll see you on the 15th then,” without waiting for a response, the woman hung up, turning dark eyes on Ryuji, “Name?”

“Ryuji Sakamoto,” he said automatically, “Should I be here…? You look-”

She waved a hand, “It’s _always_ busy. You’re here for a vist?” Ryuji nodded, and she forced on a small, reassuring smile, “ We’ll get you up there in just a moment. Here: sign these.”

‘These’ were three forms with tiny English print that Ryuji didn’t bother to read. They seemed to amount to ‘cause no trouble,’ which he hadn’t planned on anyway. He also had to give a bunch of information to make him easier to track down if he _did_ \- home address, work number, that sort of thing. And they wanted to know who he was there to visit and how they knew each other. Apparently he didn’t need to be a blood relation this time - Ryuji wondered if that was because this wasn’t an emergency anymore or a difference between the ghetto and the Settlement. The woman at the desk took another call while he filled all this out.

After _that_ , she had to compare the forms to his pass card to make sure everything was in order. When it was, she took out a camera - one of the bulky instant models that Britannians liked for this sort of thing, “Do you consent to have your picture taken for security purposes.”

“Sure,” he said. She’d actually taken the picture before he got the word out, but whatever. Ryuji figured he wasn’t getting in without going fully into the hospital’s records.

“We’ll hold onto your pass card for the time being - remember to pick it up before you leave.” The phone had been screaming at her basically the whole time for this ordeal: she finally relieved it. As she took the call, she scribbled something onto a notepad, passing it to Ryuji and mouthing ‘you can go.’

Ryuji did, squinting at the note. It was clearly a room number, but he wasn’t clear on what it actually said. Desk lady had incomprehensible doctor handwriting: maybe she’d been one before the Invasion.

Each door had a name or two written on a whiteboard outside it, just below the room number. Somehow, Ryuj found his way up a few floors to one that matched what he’d been given. Having to ask for help finding it probably would’ve killd him: he already couldn’t shake the feeling of being a trespasser. Quietly as he could, he slipped in.

Britannia liked to soundproof walls - apparently, that was an innovation that had found its way as low as St. Brigid. There was only a dull roar behind Ryuji once the door closed - and seeing Suzui, that might as well have been silence.

She was much as Ryuji had left her: eyes closed, breath slow. Under her bed’s thin sheet, he could see where Suzui’s casts bulged out. The doctors had stuck her full of tubes, and that made her look worse than she was - like the machines were the only things keeping her alive.

But that was the first glance. If Ryuji stopped and remembered to breathe, they looked… not _good_. But better. It wasn’t a mess of tubes: it was simple enough to follow, even for him. A saline drip in her arm, and a metal respirator strapped over her face. A heart monitor beeped away evenly. They were all big ugly machines, but that was only because St. Brigid only got the Settlement’s scraps. Even scraps could handle water and air: just things to keep her going until she woke up.

Ryuji had pictured things being touch and go still - he’d imagined Suzui was still in pain. She didn’t look it. She looked at peace.

There was a plastic chair by her bedside, on which there were a blankets and a pillow. Suzui’s mom must’ve been spending the nights here - or both her parents or whatever. It occurred to Ryuji that he didn’t actually know her family situation. Someone was watching over her, at least.

It felt wrong to disrupt their setup, so Ryuji checked a bare patch of wall, leaning back against it. His hands found his pockets, and he tapped at the wall with his shoe.

He knew he should say something, so he tried it out, “Hey, Suzui- _san_.”

The monitor beeped three times, which Ryuji took as a cue to keep going, “I’m… sorry. For everything.” He shook his head, “Actually, you know what? Fuck that. I mean… I am. But that’s not what you need to hear right now.”

He tapped his foot against the wall a few more times. If he could match it to the monitor’s rhythm, maybe it’d somehow help him find the right words. Suzui didn’t need another sniveling apology - if Ryuji made it through the palace, there’d be plenty of time for those. What she _needed_ was hope.

Ryuji couldn’t make himself trust the walls, no matter how generously they silenced the outside world. Quietly, he said, “I’m going after Kamoshida tomorrow.” Did saying it out loud make it more real? “I know that…” his nose itched, and he laughed bitterly, “… I know that that didn’t work out so hot the last time I tried it. But I’m stronger now - or like… the way the cat explains it, maybe I was always this strong but didn’t want to see it? Or something like that?”

He shook his head, “I’m not explaining it well - sorry about that.” Suzui’s silence seemed more understanding than judgmental, “But I guess my point is… you don’t have to be afraid of him anymore. So that’s one less thing to worry about. When you come back, the world’s gonna be just a little bit brighter.”

A tingle ran up his spine at the thought, “So you just… remember to breathe, and focus on getting better.” He listened to her heartrate, and he couldn’t just have been imagining the way it seemed to slow, to calm.

Ryuji smiled, “I’ll take care of the rest.”

* * *

**August 10, 2017 A.T.B. - Akira**

Clovis la Britannia stared down at Akira with a kind of amused contempt. Paintings of the viceroy always had this knowing look to them - like he could see all of your secrets. But all of those secrets were so far beneath him, what did it matter if he knew?

‘Ah, Mr. Kurusu. Off to the Metaverse to do battle with Mr. Kamoshida later? Then may the best man win.’

Captain Riegel’s desk was haphazardly covered in papers and folders and just generally messier than it had been the first day they’d met. That had, so far, been the closest to one of the program’s psychological evaluations they’d been able to do. Akira wasn’t complaining: as far as he was concerned, they got more than enough of each other on the training ground.

Unsurprisingly but disappointingly, physical training didn’t give him the mercy of sundays off that classes did. Akira had run his obstacle course only to be dragged back to Captain Riegel’s office, drenched in sweat and wishing for a moment to breathe.

How mad would Ann and Sakamoto be if he tried pushing back the infiltration one day?

Very, but the nap might be worth it.

“I’ve looked over your medical records,” Riegel said conversationally. Akira wondered if that was what was in the file he was musing over, or if it was just a prop, “Middling physical ability, no history of issues with fatigue or breathing problems. Yet you continue to struggle with the physical training.” There was just the faintest hint of a smile on his face, and something growled in the back of Akira’s mind, “Why do you suppose that might be, Kurusu?”

He _wanted_ Akira to say something that would let him once again prop up Britannians as the master race. If Akira thought it might make him go easier on him… no, he’d still refuse.

If he _really_ was underperforming, it was probably just lack of practice. Akira had never been the most active sort (though also not the least). That was before he’d spent most of the last month or so in a cell, barely moving. Switching to a military grade workout every day was, shockingly, a jolting change.

It probably didn’t _help_ that for half the days he’d been going to Ashford, he’d also been running around in the Metaverse. He and Morgana agreed that that _probably_ was using something different than exerting himself in the real world did. But it couldn’t help.

As long as Akira focused on it, his face wouldn’t betray him. And every ‘sir’ that he added would be another reminder to keep his tone even, “Respectfully, sir, it’s been a week. Give me more time, sir, and I’ll do better.”

“Indeed, you will,” Riegel concurred. He set down the file, considering Akira. It was so hard to tell what was on that face - there was contempt, certainly, but that seemed to just _always_ be there, “His Highness has put a great deal of trust in you, Kurusu. Do no betray it by failing him in this.”

Trust! That was a laugh: the viceroy had put his faith in Akira - he was _counting on him_ now. Of course Akira believed that: he was, after all, just a simple minded Eleven. He’d eat whatever slop Britannia saw fit to feed him.

As if Prince Clovis cared about what happened to Akira after setting him loose. So badly, he wanted to ask Riegel to stop jerking him around - no, to _tell_ him to.

He had to stop. To breathe in, but not so deep that Riegel noticed. This wasn’t the Metaverse: you didn’t just put a spirit of rebellion on display here. They’d make you regret it.

Riegel looked at him, expecting an answer. Akira bowed his head slightly, remembering the right one, “I won’t let him down. Or you, sir.”

“We’ll see,” Riegel said with that maybe-laugh noise from his throat. He consulted with the notes on his desk, raising his thick eyebrows, “Your teachers all report that you’re performing well in their courses.” It was news to Akira that they were reporting on him, but not shocking news. “Many of them are particularly impressed by how quickly you’ve adjusted to Ashford’s curriculum.” Akira wished he could take credit for that. It was just easier to concentrate on what was in front of him in the classroom than what was around him.

“It wouldn’t be fair for them to have slow down on my account,” Akira said easily. This party line was easy to repeat: it would’ve been the same in the ghetto, “The only thing for it is for me to keep up.”

“And do you find that you struggle with that?” the captain asked, fingers laced. Akira took a mental note that Riegel liked when he engaged in the rehabilitation - as long as he was saying the right things, “Keeping up, that is.”

“Not really,” Akira said before he could think better of it. It wasn’t _very_ snarky, but it felt like it might be _enough_. If it was, little harm in going further: he added, “I mean… it’s a little harder than in Osaka, but _there_ I didn’t have to worry about any _extracurricular activities_. Sir.”

Riegel’s smile thinned. He was going to hit Akira for that: fine. It’d give him some fire before the palace. Evenly, he said, “You are not the only student who has to balance school and club activities, Kurusu: all Ashford students are expected to have a diverse set of skills, beyond simply academics.”

“Respectfully, Sir,” Akira balled a fist. This was something of a leap of faith, “It’s not _that_ I’m being asked to do club activities, it’s that I _can’t_.” Riegel gave him a look like a hawk with its prey: _can’t_ was a dirty word. It implied a flaw in the system, and _that_ was impossible. Akira gulped, “The… uh… that is, the student council meets at the same time that _we_ do, sir. I can’t exactly prioritize them over required probationary-”

“That is an oversight on my part, Kurusu. I will correct it,” it had the air of a great concession. Riegel leaned back in his seat, the danger fading from his face, “And in exchange, I will rely on you to balance academics, council duties, and the terms of your probation.”

It took Akira a moment to realize it, but he actually _had_ won something there, “I… yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Riegel had just admitted he made a mistake - he’d been _wrong_.

They’d both already known he could be: but neither of them had probably ever expected to acknowledge it. It was such a small thing, but Akira couldn’t help taking pride in it.

Britannia was always bragging about their innate superiority - a thing they took as simple scientific fact. But they could be wrong, they could be outwitted. They could be _beaten_.

Akira suppressed the high that that affirmation gave him, trying to keep it out of his voice as he pushed his luck, “And speaking of, Sir, we talked yesterday about something to help with that?”

“Proactive, aren’t we?” Riegel said dryly. He pulled out a drawer in his desk, rummaging only briefly before producing a small white bottle, holding it between a thumb and index finger. A crowned chimera marked the caffeine pills as military issue, “I’m starting you on a small dosage, Kurusu: this bottle contains 100 capsules of 200mg. Take up to two daily. I will be keeping track of when you should be due to run out: we can discuss then whether we’ll renew your prescription.” He tossed the bottle across the table, and Akira only fumbled a little in catching it, “If I find out that you’ve given any of these to your fellow students - or worse, _sold_ them, you will regret it.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Sir,” Akira said. Half true. Three quarters, even: Akira had no intention of turning into Ashford’s dealer, and what he _was_ going to do with them, Riegel would never find out about, “Thank you, Sir.”

“It is my duty to provide you the tools you require to succeed here,” Riegel said simply. Apparently, it wasn’t his only duty: he had his own balancing act to maintain alongside Akira’s. After the Osaka attack, he’d been pulled briefly to meet with the viceroy and discuss new counterterrorism measures. _That_ had left him looking as ragged as Akira had felt when they’d met next: he’d surreptitiously popped pills of his own when he thought Akira would miss the moment of weakness, “Is there anything else you wish to discuss before we adjourn, Kurusu?”

Milly had asked him to see if they could borrow the painting in Riegel’s office for what she was calling her ‘Painted Faces Ball.’ He didn’t know what kind of relationship _she_ thought he had with his parole officer, but he still gave it a shot. Riegel actually laughed at that - but no dice.

Since he was determined to get the last word, Riegel went quickly over a game plan for going forward: study hard, get fit, do student council. Stay out of trouble. Akira nodded and thanked him whenever he was supposed to: the steps to this dance were a little fancier than talking to patrols, but they were ultimately the same. Eventually, he was dismissed, and tried not to make it look like he was fleeing.

“Oh, and Kurusu,” he’d made it into the doorway when Riegel stopped him.

Akira turned on a heel, back straight, “Yes, Sir?”

“I’m told that you’ve had a series of altercations with a Mr. Kamoshida?” His heart skipped a couple of beats. The plan didn’t account for the idea that Kamoshida might strike first. Akira hoped his face was staying neutral. Riegel glanced at his notes again, “Why?”

“I’m…” Akira hesitated a moment too long, forcing on a bright smile, “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Captain. I’m not actually in any of Mr. Kamoshida’s classes. I don’t _think_ that he and I have had any problems outside of them?”

“He worries, Kurusu, that you’re a bad influence on Ms. Ann Takamäki. He also complains that you’ve been disruptive to his club activities.” Akira wanted to laugh: that was one way to put it. The move right now, though, was to keep playing dumb. He hadn’t _really_ done anything wrong: they couldn’t punish him for nothing.

That he was here was living proof that that wasn’t true, but Akira held onto it anyway. There was nothing that telling Riegel the truth about Kamoshida would do. All it would lead to was an investigation that would go nowhere.

“I don’t _think_ I’ve been a ‘bad influence’ on her, Sir,” he said, carefully, “And I’m not sure when I would’ve had time to do anything to his club. He coaches basketball, right?”

“Volleyball,” Riegel said, and Akira almost laughed again. He’d never heard such contempt in that word before, “Am I to understand, Kurusu, that you are calling Mr. Kamoshida a liar?”

“No, Sir, I-”

“I ask because his account of you differs wildly from what your other teachers report. If he is not a liar, is there a particular reason you might behave differently with him as opposed to someone who is _not_ a former Eleven and a decorated war hero?” Akira hadn’t even _known_ about the latter. He almost asked what exactly his decoration was, but the nervous sweat at the back of his neck held him back. That was too liable to come off as sarcastic, and he and Riegel had gone down that road before.

He was taking too long to answer again. Riegel cocked his head slightly, suggesting, “Perhaps you resent his accomplishments, Kurusu? He has, after all, achieved the status of Honorary Britannian by virtue of the sweat of his own brow. The path you were forced upon, he chose for himself. One might say that a more truly Britannian spirit dwells in him than any we might hope to instill in you.”

Riegel had no idea how right he was. Take whatever you want, hurt whoever you like, because you’re _superior_. What could be more Britannian than that?

This was straying into dangerous territory. Akira had to steer it back somewhere safe, “Captain, I promise that isn’t the case either.”

“Then which is it?” Riegel challenged, “Either Mr. Kamoshida is a liar, or you would appear to have some sort of grudge against him.”

Yeah, because it was _impossible_ that Kamoshida could be the aggressor. Akira bowed, letting his brow furrow where his parole officer couldn’t see it, “It’s neither, Sir. This is a misunderstanding.”

Riegel considered it, and while he did, Akira glared at the floor. Stupid. How could someone who knew _nothing_ about what was _really_ going on have such a role in how it played out? When he’d reached his decision, Riegel rose from his desk, circling to Akira. He put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him from the bow again. There was that warning grip on his arm again, “See that it is remedied.”

“I will, Sir,” Akira said, trying not to audibly sigh from relief when he took his hand off of him, “Thank you, Sir.”

“You will find Mr. Kamoshida a better ally than an enemy. Though your path is unorthodox, he has gone through much of what you will,” Riegel said, as if he knew anything about _any_ of that. His voice was almost gentle - he honestly thought this was just good advice, “Don’t hate him for what he has achieved: look to him for guidance. He _is_ what we hope to make you.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Akira repeated. He couldn’t get the feeling back in it. If _that_ was what Britannia wanted him to be, they were either more blind or more twisted than he’d ever imagined, “May I go, Sir?”

It broke with protocol: he didn’t dismiss himself. He waited for Riegel to do so, and then thanked him for it. And that was all well and good, but Akira couldn’t take another second of this.

Thankfully, Riegel paid him no mind. He waved a hand, returning to his paperwork, “Off with you. Enjoy the festivities.”

Akira had the presence of mind to wait until Riegel finished the thought to leave. Then he waited until the door was closed to let a snarl overtake his false neutrality. Then he waited until he’d gone down a hallway and a floor, then found an empty bathroom. Then he screamed, wordless emotion pouring out the second he stopped bottling it.

Release. That was all he’d needed. He was still shaking a little as he breathed in, breathed out. His bag shouted, “Hey hey! What’s going on out there!?”

“Nothing, sorry,” he muttered, unzipping so that Morgana could hop back out. The cat took an exaggeratedly deep breath, “Meeting just got to me.”

“I can see why. Captain Riegel’s a real piece of work…” Morgana huffed. Brighter, though, he said, “But you got we needed, right? Let’s see!” Akira rummaged through his jacket pocket, pulling out the caffeine pills. Morgana hissed a little, “That’s it??”

“What can I say. My parole officer isn’t jumping at the chance to get me drugs,” Akira rattled the bottle a little, “It’s not like we _know_ that this is going to do anything.”

“Yeah, but if we use our _brains_ we can-”

“Mona, can we call a truce on that crap until we’re in the Metaverse?” Akira said, “I get enough of it from…” he gestured broadly to everything.

The cat nodded, “Fair. Sorry.” He jumped up, balancing on Akira’s shoulders to look at the pill bottle more closely, “This _should_ work. Humans have a cognition that caffeine can help fuel them, right? It helps us recharge.”

“So if we take these in the Metaverse when we’re running low on steam, it should perk us back up,” Akira said.

“Exactly,” Morgana nodded, eyeing him thoughtfully, “You’re actually catching on pretty quick, you know.”

Akira looked back at him, eyebrows raised, “Hey. Don’t think you have to butter me up just because-”

“Come on, I mean it!” Morgana averted his gaze, suddenly becoming incredibly interested in the sink, “You’ve got serious potential as a phantom thief. You’ve even got the mindset down - the way you talked down Ann and Ryuji from-”

“I didn’t say anything that they weren’t gonna figure out on their own,” Akira said flatly. Not least because he was less and less sure that he’d steered them in the right direction. Kamoshida wasn't invincible. _No one_ was invincible. But sometimes, he seemed close to it.

“Still. What you did say, you said well.” Morgana licked nonchalantly at a paw, using it to wash his face, “I was certainly impressed, and that doesn’t happen easy.”

“I don’t have _nearly_ the legs to impress _you_.”

“Hey. We called a truce,” Morgana spat, “Fine: you don’t have to take it seriously for now. But you’re doing good work. Keep it up.”

Akira considered that. As they left the bathroom, he mused at the ceiling, “Why do you think Kamoshida went to Riegel?”

“I dunno. From what I understand, society treats him differently than you. Like he’s better than you.” Akira knew that. The cat continued, “Maybe he thought that dealing with you through your parole would be the fastest way to get you out of his hair?”

“That’s the thing: I’m not _in_ his hair,” Akira said. He folded his arms, drumming his fingers against each, “The last time him and I even _spoke_ to each other was before I knew about the Metaverse. You’re sure that he doesn’t remember anything from us dealing with his shadow?”

He felt Morgana sink lower into the bag, “Probably not?”

Akira sighed, “It’d be a lot more helpful if you were more certain about things - that’s not breaking our truce, it _would_.”

“W-well…” lacking a quick retort, Morgana grumbled wordlessly. They stayed quiet a few more steps, then he said, “We all keep shouting each other’s names in the palace. Since it’s a manifestation of his worldview, maybe it’s kinda like we’re saying, ‘Hey! Akira Kurusu is here! He’s the one who’s messing with you!’”

That made sense, “It’s leaving… I dunno. Echoes of us? Some kind of impression that we did something.”

“I think so…” Morgana said, “If so, it’s an easy fix! We’ll talk about it with the team.”

“Speaking of…” Akira pulled out his phone, firing off a quick text, ‘Got it. S, ETA?’

Sakamoto didn’t respond right away - surprising. He was usually practically glued to their groupchat. Ann, however, did, ’Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?’ she asked, ‘We’ve gotta make an appearance at the paintings thing.’

‘Which I still don’t understand. What are we doing?’

‘I just painted my face.’ A beat later, she added, ‘Milly’s thinking about making you do some kind of living statue thing.’ Her text was followed up by a picture of their council president. Akira had no idea where she’d gotten a blue tunic with the royal fleur-de-lis pattern, complete with military epaulettes and medals. But she’d definitely pulled off Clovis la Britannia’s odd mix of flowy and forceful, effeminate and dominant. The way she shone, she must’ve tossed a small fortune at the costume.

Beside her, Rivalz had, ducttaped a green apple to his face and called it a day. He didn’t even bother with a bowler. The two of them brandished a can of paint each and a mad gleam in their eyes.

Akira considered the photo for a few moments. Morgana gulped, “You’ve got weird friends, Akira.”

He did indeed. Carefully, he texted, ‘And if I refuse?’

‘Well I guess then the game is afoot.’

‘wtf’ Sakamoto put it pretty poignantly, ‘just gettin here the effs goin on?’

Akira sighed, ‘We’re apparently laying low for a little while before heading in. Meet in the council chamber in an hour?’

‘thot u said we couldnt?’

‘Yeah, we don’t know where we’ll end up,’ Akira hoped none of the rest of the student council was looking over Ann’s shoulder. This would take a bit more explaining than he was ready for.

‘Mona and I checked it out. It’s safe.’ He repeated, ‘An hour?’

‘Half,’ they both said at once. Fine by him: less time to dodge Milly for.

That proved to be a little complicated: if he was going to be seen at this event, he’d have to do it in Ashford’s central courtyard. And somehow, dressed like an ordinary student, he was the one who stood out. All the Britannian kids were in these odd little recreations of famous paintings. He walked by about two dozen Mona Lisas. Others took the idea of dressing up as paintings more literally: they’d hung hulking golden frames around, lumbering precariously throughout the art exhibits Milly had set up.

Even people you’d think would be above this sort of thing got involved. From the safety of Akira’s bag, Morgana mused, “Lady Shirley sure can rock pearl earrings…”

The exhibits themselves were… fine? Akira didn’t really understand art. He did know that a lot of these colors would run pretty quickly if it started raining. A couple of them had tarps for that exact purpose - just in case.

He didn’t recognize any of the pieces that anyone was wearing among the displays. Idly, he wondered what the supposed man of the hour thought of all this. From what he’d gathered, this was all the work of a Michelangelo Rousseau. Impressive if that was the case: they were pretty obviously in a bunch of different styles. What did he think about the costume party of older, better known paintings, overlooking his work?

His timer buzzed in his pocket, and he made his way toward the dance hall. The crowd of students thinned as he got closer to it: Milly had planned for this event to go at least until what she insistently called ‘the starry night.’

Akira was the first to arrive in the council chambers. The sun was only just starting to set, but it felt as if he’d jumped right back to the moment they’d all decided to do this. Morgana hopped from his bag onto the table, and Akira ran a hand along its smooth surface. He unlocked a cabinet tucked away in the corner of the room: it held the model guns Ann had liberated. He unpacked them as carefully as he would have the real thing, lining them up on the table’s surface.

He looked at the setup. It would be a little egotistical to seat himself at the head of the table to wait for the others.

Well. As long as he could back it up, what was the harm in ego?

Akira wasn’t waiting for long. Ann was quick to follow. She entered, scrubbing dabbed on lilypads from her face. Sakamoto was right on her heels, tossing aside the cap that marked him as a servant haphazardly into the corner.

Akira stood up, already fishing for his phone, “Hell of a party.”

“I’ll say,” Sakamoto groaned, “You guys _gotta_ figure out how to pick up your own trash. It’s bad enough on a regular day, but-”

“You’re not gonna get in trouble for joining us, right Ryuji?” Ann asked. She looked over the model St. George - it was only fair she have her pick of the crop.

He shrugged, “If I do, it’s gonna be for _this_ , not for leaving. Ashford doesn’t really notice its staff.”

Morgana cleared his throat, “So. Everyone’s here. Are we ready to begin the infiltration?”

More than ready. Akira could see it on the others’ faces, and feel it in his own heart. They were all hungry for it.

Two days might as well have been a thousand years. Akira opened the nav, saying, “We’ve waited long enough: let’s get started.”

The world faded from all of them, and the infiltration began.


	9. Infiltration

**August 10 2017 A.T.B. - Akira**

For the briefest of blips, the safe room wasn’t any different from the student council chambers. The same long wooden table trimmed with just a touch of gold. The same ornamental bookcases and glass displays casually filled with the kind of finery Britannians took for granted. The same wide windows at the back of the room, overlooking Ashford’s sprawling fields.

Then the Metaverse would sputter, remembering itself, and the room would pulse. The council table would only change a little: the wood got a little dingier, the gilding a bit tackier. Its surrounding chairs would change from opulent and imperial to plush and decadent. The windows would shut themselves up with thick grey stone, exchanging the view outside for tapestries of King Kamoshida in the midst of heroism. The Metaverse’s view of the room would hold strong for maybe a minute, if that. Then it would fade, and so on.

Kamoshida’s cognition was weak here. Maybe he didn’t think of this as a place that was truly _his_ , maybe he just didn’t think twice about where Ashford’s students governed themselves from. He was disconnected from it, and so it wasn’t _always_ part of his palace.

It was still his enough that his mark was on it. Sakamoto, after a moment of wide eyed wonder (this was after all the first time he’d been back since awakening), got right to changing that. He jumped up to grab the tapestry’s edge, tearing it down with a satisfying rip. He grinned back at the team, “Been holdin’ that in like you wouldn’t believe!” Akira gave him an indulgent thumbs up.

“So immature…” Morgana muttered to himself, hopping up onto the table. Louder, he called out, “Alright team, listen up! There’s one last bit of prep before we get this show on the road!”

Sakamoto and Ann let out twin groans of frustration. Leaning on the table with a fist, Ann said, “Morgana, _come on_. We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be. No more waiting.”

“Seriously!” Sakamoto added, “If it’s so important, don’t wait ’til we’re already in it to tell us!”

Morgana shifted back and forth, his tail flicking nervously, “Hey, don’t blame me! Aki- Frizz, tell ‘em what happened!”

Right under the bus. Immediately, Ann and Sakamoto’s little mini-revolt turned its attention to Akira. If looks could kill, the two of them would never have needed the Metaverse to deal with Kamoshida. The only solution was compromise: Akira jerked his head to the door, “Walk and talk?”

It didn’t _quite_ diffuse things: their blood was already up. Ann had been so ready to rampage three days ago. And Akira remembered how enticing a second taste of power was once you finally got the first: Sakamoto must’ve been itching for it now. He couldn’t blame either of them for being ready to lash out, no matter the direction.

But they weren’t so singleminded that they stayed angry once he explained what had happened with Riegel. Sakamoto grimaced, “Wait, for real? Kamoshida might just go after us anyway, even if he doesn’t remember what happened here?”

Akira nodded, pausing to check around a marble corner. No one down that way: they pressed on, “We’re basically leaving an imprint of our names in his mind every time we say them.”

“No big deal then, right?” Ann asked, “We just bring the code over from the groupchat.”

Morgana huffed, “That was my idea - I was _gonna_ bring it up back in the safe room, Lady An-” he caught himself, gurgling off not _quite_ in time not to say her name.

She only snorted, “Wait, and you were gonna have us wait up so you could explain _that_? C’mon… uh… ‘M.’ We’re not dumb.”

“Yeah, but that code _is_ ,” Morgana said, “It’s the easiest thing in the world to break, first of all. Second of all, it doesn’t fit the style and polish of a phantom thief at all!”

Akira came to a halt again - in part to check around another corner. This time, there was a guard, though blind luck had let him look the other way when Akira peeked. But also… “Hold on. You just wanted to come up with _cooler nicknames_?”

Morgana crossed his arms. Akira hadn’t thought he _could_ blush in this form, but there it was, “I… obviously that’s not _it_ , Frizz. First of all, it’s a _code name_. Not a nickname. Kids have nicknames. Phantom thieves have-”

Akira sighed, “Okay, we get it. C’mon. Tight schedule here.”

The cat hissed, “Well if you’re in such a _rush_!! There’s a morale reason for it. We’re gonna feel tougher with a better code name - and remember, what we _feel_ in the Metaverse is what we _are_. Would you rather be a boring, nameless letter or…” his voice dropped to some kind of enigmatic whisper, “Or a name whispered on the wind. A name with no face, but a name to be feared all the same. The guards know you’re here, but they don’t know where. Then you appear: their worst nightmare!”

Akira ran a hand through his hair, “Oh my god, you’re such a _nerd_ about this stuff, how did I not notice that?”

Ann bit at a knuckle, suppressing a giggle, but her shoulders shook all the same, “Seriously.”

“No wait, I think he’s got a point.” Sakamoto squatted, getting on Morgana’s level, “So what do you got for me?”

Akira and Ann looked at each other. He rolled an eye up into his skull. She shrugged - if they were stuck with this detour, better to lean into it.

Morgana tapped his chin with his paw, considering, “Hm. Well, from what I’ve seen of how you fight… and then there’s your posture, and how you talk. And that awful dye job!” Morgana pumped a fist, “I’ve got it! You’re definitely ‘Thug!’”

He let out a yowl of protest as Sakamoto grabbed at his cheeks. The cat really was some kind of cartoon: his cheeks just kept stretching, like a rubber band, “Yeah, no.”

“Ryu-” Ann caught herself, replacing the name with a grunting sound, “Be nice.”

“You hear what he called me!?”

Akira sighed, “Yeah, way to prove him wrong, big guy.”

Sakamoto considered that, and begrudgingly released the cat, getting back to his feet, “Whatever, man.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, “Got enough people treating me like a thug out there.”

“I hear you,” Akira said quietly. If he were honest with himself, that might’ve been his first impression of Sakamoto, if things had been different, “Feels like a waste to base it off of something in the real world anyway.”

“Right?” Sakamoto scratched at the side of his head, just by his mask, “Like we get all this power and these outfits and masks and shit, and we’re gonna pick names from the losers we pretend to be out there?”

“Well then, just base it on your mask,” Ann said, “We can call you ‘Skull.’”

“Skull…” Sakamoto tested it out. It must’ve fit, though privately Akira wondered if he would’ve just gone with anything Ann suggested. Either way, he cheered, “That’s effin’ rad. I’m Skull!”

He was a character, that’s what he was. One minute, he could be so serious and angry - and then the next, he turned into this bright and happy kid. It was actually pretty charming.

It was infectious, too. Ann crossed her arms, an amused smile playing on her lips, “Alright then: you’re Skull. Who am I?”

Sakamoto looked her over - they all did. It was easy to forget the way Ann’s outfit hugged her curves in the Metaverse: that was just how she was dressed here. It honestly was almost hard to pay attention to next to what a badass she and Carmen were. Almost.

But when she was _asking_ for you to pay attention to her costume… and to pick a name based on it…?

“Catsuit,” Sakamoto said, and Akira felt for him because he was sure that he hadn’t _meant_ to say ‘Catsuit,’ but there it was. Out in the universe between them now. He flushed, tried to save it - so valiant to fight for a lost cause, “I mean ' _Catwoman_!' Because… yeah. Thieves and shit.”

He just kept digging. And Ann just _let_ him. She put a hand on her hip, and even with the mask over her face, Akira could hear her eyebrows raising. If Sakamoto had any sense at all, he’d stop talking before she blew up at him. But he didn’t, so…

So the only thing Akira could do in good conscience was come to the rescue, “Actually, that’s not a bad start.” Once again, Ann rounded on him. If anything, they needed to wrap this up so she’d have something to blow off steam with that wasn’t a teammate, “Not literally ‘Catwoman,’ but like, if we’re basing it on our masks…?”

Ann put a hand to hers, feeling at the edges. Akira only tensed a little: she wasn’t _really_ going to summon her persona on them. He assumed. Idly, she mused, “It is kinda like a cat, I guess.”

“Y-yeah!” Sakamoto said. Akira wondered if he knew what a hole he’d just been pulled out of, “We could call you something like ‘Lioness!’”

“Or 'Panther,'” Akira suggested.

“Or _Cougar_ ,” Morgana said dreamily.

They all looked at him, and the cat yelped in surprise. Maybe he’d thought that had stayed in his head. Sakamoto, like he had any room to judge, said, “Dude… that’s not even what that…” he shook his head, “Never mind.”

“What do you mean ‘never mind!?’” Morgana shouted, “What, you think just because-”

“ _Never mind_ , Mona,” Ann said, and _that_ shut the cat right up. Maybe Akira should’ve suggested ‘Domme.’ She looked back his way - less dangerously, thankfully, “What did you say before? 'Panther?'” He nodded, and she smiled, “Let’s go with that one.”

“Which just leaves me and Frizz,” Morgana said. Akira didn’t know where he got off with those smug tones. Honestly, he and Sakamoto both should’ve been shamed into silence for the rest of the day after _that_. But there he was, puffing his chest out and standing as proud as a two foot tall cat could, “I’ve actually got some ideas - since I’m _basically_ the leader, why not ‘Maestro?’”

Akira rolled his eyes, checking down the hallway. That guard was still blissfully unaware, “Petition to call the cat ‘Mona.’”

“What!?”

He shrugged, “Kamoshida doesn’t know you - or if he does, he just thinks you’re my cat. You probably don’t even need a code name.”

“Yeah, but it’d be weird if he were the only one without one,” Ann said, which Akira had to grant, “‘Mona’ actually sounds pretty cute.”

“They’re not _supposed_ to sound…” it took a beat for it to register, but when it did, Morgana composed himself. Airily, he said, “Well I guess a _real_ phantom thief can pull off any name with style - it’d just be unfair if I had one as inherently cool as you guys. Mona it is.”

Akira and Ann exchanged another look. Who said they didn’t have good teamwork? Sakamoto rolled his eyes, “Man, one of us is a _sucker_.”

“At least you know it, Skull,” Morgana jabbed, scurrying out of the way of the attempted punt that followed. He looked at Akira, “And then there’s this guy.”

Akira looked down the hallway again. Another guard had joined the first: they quietly spoke back and forth. There probably wouldn’t be another any time soon, but it didn’t look like they were going anywhere, “I can just be Frizz until we come up with something better.”

“No way, man,” Sakamoto said, jerking a thumb at the cat, “Give Mona an inch and there’s _no way_ he isn’t makin’ that stick.”

“Please. Like I’d let my first protégé wear such a lame title,” that he’d come up with, and been the only one to call him since, “Especially when a better option’s so obvious: Joker.”

Anything would’ve been fine, and Akira had prepped for much worse. That, though, gave him pause. He clicked his tongue, crossed his arms, “State your case.”

“Uh, it sounds awesome?” Ann said. And it did, but still.

“Not just that Lady A- _Panther_ ,” Morgana said, “Joker’s our wildcard: you never know what you’ll get from him.” When he stepped away from ego for a moment, the cat got so earnest - Akira couldn’t help but get swept up in his enthusiasm, “That’s the kind of unpredictability a true phantom thief needs.”

It seemed like way too much weight to give a silly code name. And it was _definitely_ too much credit to give Akira. Yeah, he was unpredictable: was his blind violence going to be _helpful_ or was he going to almost get them all killed again?

By the way Morgana looked expectantly up at him, he had high hopes for him, calling him that. They felt… misplaced.

‘Can I trust you with this?’ Morgana seemed to ask.

‘No,’ Akira wanted to say.

But _that_ would kill morale like nothing else. So Akira would have to pretend it fit.

He stretched, looking one more time over his shoulder at the amassing guards, “Fantastic. Can we do something about _them_ now?”

Morgana jumped, following his gaze, “There’s… there’s this new thing called reporting in to your team!”

“What can I say, I’m keeping things unpredictable, Mona,” he said. More seriously, he clued Ann and Sakamoto in, “Two shadows. They look pretty weak.”

Ann cocked her head to the side, “How can you tell? They always change before we actually start fighting them.”

Akira shrugged, making a flabbergasted noise. It was just a feeling he’d had.

“Ooh!” Sakamoto hopped in place, “Uh, if they are… can I…?”

Ah, childhood innocence. When you’d gotten your persona once, and just couldn’t wait to use it again. The memories. Akira snorted, patting his shoulder, “All yours. Knock ‘em dead.”

Sakamoto pumped a fist, “Sure thing, leader!” Leader. What a profound misunderstanding of the situation. Then he rounded the corner, bellowing, “‘Sup nerds!? This is Skull, comin’ at you loud and clear!”

The guards let out twin shouts of surprise, and thunder roared as Captain Kidd burst to life. Morgana buried his face in his hands, “What happened to the stealthy approach!?”

Lightning flashed. Akira put his hands into his pockets, rounding the corner to watch the show, “Yeah, but look how much fun he’s having.”

“Jealous?” Ann asked.

“Hella.” He cracked his neck, taking a step forward, “Think I’ll join him.”

The two guards had burst into six or seven shadows, but Akira’s assessment seemed accurate: Sakamoto grappled easily enough with the curved green horns of one of the horse monsters. Kidd protected him from the others, and the rumbling cannons let Sakamoto handle them one at a time.

He probably could have taken them on his own. But honestly, where would the fun be in that? Akira picked up speed. He didn’t call on Arsène, but he felt his power coursing through him. He leapt through a diving demon with a flourish, landing with his back to Sakamoto’s. A couple more demons, some fairies, and another horses. Honestly, these guys were old news: they were only a problem in larger numbers, “Hope you don’t mind the assist.”

“Be my guest,” Sakamoto grunted, finally overpowering the shadow he was locked with, forcing a knee up under its chin. It reared back just enough for him to bash its head in with his pipe. He crowed wordlessly at the small victory, lightning striking beside him.

Ann didn’t give more warning that she was joining the fray than calling out, “Carmen!” but that was enough for Akira to know to hit the deck, Sakamoto following a beat later. Flame surged above them: one of the fairies managed to flit away in time, but the other shadows were consumed.

Akira gave her a thumbs up, but Morgana shouted, “Panther! Skull! Dial it back - we don’t know how deep the palace goes!”

“Eff that, that was frickin’ awesome!” Sakamoto said, shooting back to his feet.

“Could you _be_ more reckless?!” the cat screamed. He looked back the way they’d come, “We’ve got more coming!”

“Cool, gives us a chance to be more reckless,” Akira sniped. He turned his gaze on the surviving fairy. Something warm flowed under his skin, anticipating. It could wait: he gave it a cheeky grin, “Hey. Go tell King Kamoshida he’ll need to do better than _that_ if he wants to stop us.” It gave him a panicked nod, and Akira let Arsène explode to life behind him, “We’ll be waiting.”

Frantic not to give him a chance to change his mind, the fairy flew off deeper into the palace in a trail sparkling dust. Akira shouted, “Alright team, let’s kick some ass!” and Sakamoto cheered.

Morgana smacked his head into his hands, “No no no! Stealth! We’re being stealthy, you’d think you’d all eventually learn!”

“Oh, would you relax?” Akira said, a little more smoothly. Adrenaline was still pumping: he’d fooled himself there a little. Faintly, he could hear the rumble of the shadows still coming their way.

“Now Kamoshida knows we’re here!” Morgana shouted.

“Now Kamoshida _thinks_ we’re _here_ ,” Akira countered, “He thinks we’re bogged down with fighting.” He pointed up to the winking lights the fairy had left behind, “ _And_ we have a path to wherever that one thinks is central command.”

“That said, we _should_ get going before we have company,” Ann said. She winked at Akira as she passed, “Look at you, thinking ahead.”

“Let’s get goin’ then!” Sakamoto said. He was still just a _little_ too loud; they’d have to work on that, “We’ve got a plan, so let’s get started.”

Morgana hesitated only a few moments, but he did rush after them. Glancing up at Akira, he said, “It’s not a _bad_ plan. Nice one, Joker.”

Huh. Maybe it _did_ fit after all.

* * *

**August 10, 2017 A.T.B. - Morgana**

That reception hall that had given them all so much trouble had these balconies perched in the corners of the room. You’d almost certainly miss them from the floor: they were too high up, and any discerning intruder’s eyes were going to be more drawn to the chandeliers that lit up the room.

If there was anyone down there right now, maybe they’d do a double take as those chandeliers bobbed slightly under the weight of Morgana’s troupe. It was actually a little impressive: he’d been ready for Ryuji to lose balance when he jumped onto the canopy above the first one in their path and plummet haphazardly down into the floor below. But apparently, when the Metaverse wanted him light on his feet, it turned him into a perfectly decent thief.

Trouble was, it didn’t make him any easier to plan around. Ryuji came to a sudden stop as they were crossing, balancing on the edge of the platform to glower across the hall. Morgana was _sure_ he was going to fall, by the way the chandelier tipped.

His gaze was fixed on that enormous painting of King Kamoshida they kept seeing. Morgana’s ears flattened against his head. Abstractly, he understood: from everything they’d seen, everything that Ryuji had told them, he and the Kamoshida in the real world had crashed together enough to last a lifetime. But there wasn’t any use in dwelling on that: they were making it right now. He just needed to _focus_.

Unfortunately, it seemed like Ryuji was utterly incapable of that. He held up a hand, made a gun. He was pretty obviously trying to keep his voice casual, but Morgana still heard the edge, “Think I can fry that smug look off his face from here?”

Morgana scoffed, “Yeah, you show that canvas. That’s _totally_ worth giving our position away.” He left Skull to soak that in before he could argue, hopping on to the next chandelier.

Akira added - not nearly roughly enough to jam it into Ryuji’s head, “Careful with using your persona too much, Skull. Trust me, you don’t want to waste it on things that can’t fight back.” He of all people would know.

The ground shook under them when Skull followed after them, “Oh come on, I wasn’t gonna _do_ it.” Morgana wasn’t convinced. No matter how plainly he spelled it out, this guy just didn’t _get_ that having a persona didn’t make him invincible. Joker had been the same way - only maybe a _little_ smarter.

He was a bad influence on Lady Ann, too. She looked back over her shoulder, musing, “Maybe if we have any reserves left, we light it up on the way out…”

Ryuji grinned, “ _That’s_ what I’m talkin’ about! Let that asshole know we were here!”

“That’s _exactly_ the opposite of what we should do!” Morgana shouted, “What if you guys burn something down and it changes the palace layout? The whole _point_ of this infiltration is scouting out a clear path to the treasure!”

Akira had the nerve to put a finger to his lips. On the one hand, fine, fair, they all should be keeping their ears to the ground and their voices down. But on the other, they’d checked the hall below: there had been no one then, there’d be no one now.

Since he just couldn’t stomach not having the last word, Ryuji muttered, “Doesn’t feel right to just leave him grinning like an idiot.”

Morgana scowled. It wasn’t even worth explaining to him - _again_ \- that his focus should be on the _treasure_. The palace was born from distorted desires. The treasure was the source of those desires. So obviously, if you removed the source, the palace would vanish. Ryuji could have all the wanton destruction he wanted, and without the childish tantrum he wanted to throw to get it.

It was a good thing that the others were learning. They were never going to get through this if Morgana was constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure none of them were doing something stupid.

Finally they touched down on ground that didn’t sway under their feet. The balcony on this side matched the one on the other. There was just barely enough square footage of checkered marble floor for all of them to stand together. Morgana was pretty sure they were meant for one guard (or one palace ruler in the mood to spy) to keep an eye on the entrance.

In this body, just about any door was impressive to Morgana: they all towered so high above him. There was something about the laminated white wood of this one that hit a chord with him though. Maybe it was the realization that this was the furthest in they’d ever been, “Everything past this threshold is new territory: keep your guards up.”

Akira considered that for a moment, “Could be anything waiting for us…” he lifted a foot, gingerly testing the door with it. Morgana stiffened. He wouldn’t. Looking to his team, Akira flashed a grin, “Everyone get ready to run for cover.” Then he kicked it open with a _bang_ , barreling down the hall a second later. The others rushed after him in the moment that Morgana was standing there, stunned.

These kids were gonna give him a heart attack.

There wasn’t time for one now, though. Somewhere in the distance, someone with a shadow’s two voices shouted, “What was that noise?!”

Another chimed in, “Going to investigate!”

And there was Morgana, standing dumbfounded in plain view. That, obviously, had to change. Sprinting for the first thing he saw, he somersaulted into a vase’s waiting mouth. It was a tall enough thing that he could watch the shadows run past without worrying about them noticing him - and so his heart leaped again when he saw the others slinking from their hiding spots and around the corner the shadows must have come from.

Morgana only took a moment to free himself from the vase, during which time one of the shadow guards said, “Did someone leave this door open? Careless after all the intruders…”

“Let’s get back to our post,” the other said. Morgana jumped, rushing to catch up to the others before they noticed him. His mind was reeling. Had they seriously just left him behind!? _Again_!?

Lady Ann’s voice cut through his worries, “Mona!”

She peeked out at him through a cracked door, gesturing for him to follow. Morgana dove, glad that he landed on soft green carpet instead of the marble floors of the hallway. The door clicked quietly shut behind him.

Anger caught up with him a moment later. He looked up, growling, “Where is he!? Where is that idiot!?!”

“Calm down, Morgana.” Lady Ann’s voice could be so soothing, but he wasn’t going to let himself _be_ soothed right now.

Akira leaned against a packed bookcase (they seemed to have found their way into a library), hands in his pockets and that stupid smug grin on his face. Morgana marched up to him, pointing accusingly, “Joker, what were you _thinking_!? What if there’d been more of them?? Or if they’d been closer!?”

“We’d be fighting?” Akira guessed, rubbing the back of his head, “Or I guess maybe running in the other direction, but I had a good feeling.”

“Can you _please_ share these feelings with the rest of the team before you go doing things like that?” Akira held a finger to his lips again, and Morgana let out an annoyingly catlike hiss, “Don’t you shush me, I’m _right_!”

Ryuji, damn him, was laughing like an idiot. At least he had the sense to do it _mostly_ quietly. Ann sighed, “Joker, we _do_ have to start being more careful about stunts like that. We don’t know how much palace we’ve still got ahead of us.”

“A lot.” Morgana muttered, “The treasure smells far off: I’d be surprised if we were more than a tenth of the way done.” He breathed in, breathed out, looked at Akira again and tried to remember that this kid was a _kid_. A complete newbie when it came to this kind of thievery, so it fell to Morgana, the master, to teach him, “There’ll be plenty of action ahead of us _without_ making our own.”

Akira hesitated - probably looking for a smart remark, but instead he dipped his head, “You’re right. I’m sorry.” His shrug was more embarrassed than devil-may-care, “I was thinking we’d be able to misdirect them again.”

“Which, like, we did,” Ryuji pointed out. He was easy to ignore, but Morgana was still grateful for the look Lady Ann gave him.

“We did,” Akira agreed absently. He didn’t commit one way or the other more than that, and that was fine. The real world demanded a lot of bowing and groveling from him: even in the short time Morgana had been spending with him, he could see that. It must’ve been hard to do it here, even when he was wrong.

And that was all well and good: Morgana didn’t care about any apologies. As long as Joker’s behavior changed, Akira could have whatever attitude he wanted.

Morgana tried to find the perfect mix of firm and gentle to express that, “We do this smart, or we lose.”

Akira only nodded again: it had the quiet gravitas to it that meant he understood what had gone unspoken. Ryuji looked from one of them to the other, picking at an ear, “Man, Mona’s little wildcard speech really got to ya, didn’t it?” Typically unsophisticated: he couldn’t even stand other people appreciating the natural drama of their situation. For just a moment, Akira set his jaw: good. He got it too.

Oblivious what a pest he was being, Ryuji swaggered further into the room, making a show of looking around, “So like, where are we anyway?”

Morgana scoffed, “It’s a library, obviously. What, Skull, never been in one?” He couldn’t remember what the gesture Ryuji made in response to that meant _exactly_ , but he knew it was rude.

“Kamoshida never struck me as much of a reader,” Lady Ann gestured to the bookcases, towering as high as the ceiling, “I mean… at least not _this_ much.” She picked out a thick tome, blowing lightly on the cover - now that Morgana looked at them, there was a thick layer of dust on basically all the books. She cocked her head to the side - Morgana wondered if she did that because she knew the couldn’t see her raise a perfect eyebrow, “‘A Treatise on Volleyball Virility: The King Kamoshida Method in Action.’” Rolling her eyes, she stuffed the book back into place, “Sounds about right.”

Ryuji rubbed at the side of another, putting some mocking bass into his voice, “‘A Strong Man Behind You: King Kamoshida in Wartime.’” He spat on the old tome, muttering, “What a fuckwad.”

“So what’re we looking at, Mona?” Akira sighed, gesturing lazily here and there, “They’re obviously all about Kamoshida. What’s that mean?”

The trouble with being the one with the most experience in here meant that Morgana was expected to have an answer for everything they saw. If anything, the other three should have had more of an idea of what Kamoshida’s cognitions meant: they were the ones who’d actually met him, “He must think of his accomplishments as… I dunno. Like the great deeds of history. ‘You could fill a whole library with the story of my life,’ that kind of thing.”

Ryuji spat again, “You’d think it wouldn’t be so untouched, then: guy like him’s gotta be droolin’ all over his _glory days_.” He got that look again - like he wanted to call up Kidd and start a fire. Morgana stared at him, trying to will him back into focus.

When he was sure that Ryuji wasn’t going to do something stupid, Morgana said, “It doesn’t really matter one way or the other: this might be a dead end.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lady Ann asked. Morgana was: the bookcases stretched from wall to wall, but that didn’t mean they went _far_. The whole space was like a particularly large walk in closet. She pointed at something on the ceiling, “Look.”

Squinting, Morgana did: the ceiling had another mural on it. It was, a little miraculously, not King Kamoshida. In the candlelight, Morgana could make out a white half circle with little stripes crisscrossing it protruding from above the far wall. After a second, he realized it was probably meant to be a volleyball, but he wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to be seeing.

Lady Ann was so proud of whatever it was, though. She put a triumphant fist on her hip, “Well? Doesn’t it look like there’s more to that painting?”

“Which would mean there’s something past that bookcase,” Akira mused, “Good catch, Panther.” He mimed tipping his hat, and she sketched the outline of a bow.

It _was_ a good catch, though. Morgana should’ve been the one to notice it. Or at least he shouldn’t have needed it pointed out to him. The others were relying on him: there should’ve been a wider gap in their abilities.

Morgana breathed the worries out through his nose, and none of the others noticed. He’d only missed it because he was too low to the ground. Yeah, that was it: Lady Ann had just been closer. In his own body (which was no doubt tall and broad and muscular), he’d have caught that in an instant.

“So what do we do?” Ryuji asked, though he seemed to have some ideas, judging by how he swung that pipe back and forth. It was like a pendulum, just at Morgana’s height. Seriously, did this guy just not know that you could solve a problem without smashing it? Right on cue, he flashed a grin, “This looks like something we should just bust open.”

“Hold on, Skull,” Akira said faster than Morgana could, maybe because he’d sensed Morgana would say it less gently, “Check this out.”

‘This’ was at eye level for them, which for Morgana meant that it was about two Morganas over his own head. He scurried up onto a table, quietly enough that it didn’t draw attention, and that mitigated the problem. Still, he’d _almost_ forgotten about the dissonance of being separated from his own body. The reminders were unwelcome.

They were looking at nothing. More specifically, they were looking at a gap in the bookcase. Morgana chuckled, “Impressive. All the rest of the shelves are full to bursting: why should just one be missing here?” He winked knowingly, “Maybe we’ll find out when we put a book in there.”

“Like the one you’re standing on?” Akira suggested, a playful note in his voice. Morgana looked at his feet, almost jumping when he saw the massive tome under them.

Instead, he smiled like he was in on the joke, “Exactly.”

He hopped from the book, handing it off to Akira with only a little struggle. It weighed about as much as Morgana did, and he pitched backwards a step when he picked it up. Really, it was a small miracle he didn’t knock over the oil lamp he was sharing the table with. _That_ was more evidence that his current form was a figment of the Metaverse. What, he could swing a sword around like it was nothing, but a book was too heavy? The only way that made sense was if this wasn’t his real body. The Metaverse was making up whatever it thought made sense for his soul at any given moment.

Akira, by contrast, had a real body, and so the Metaverse knew what to work with for him: he handled the book without any difficulties, clicking his tongue when he saw the title, “‘All Things in Their Place, Part One: Slaves and Servants.’” He looked meaningfully at Lady Ann and Ryuji, “By King Kamoshida.”

Ryuji scowled, muttering to himself. Lady Ann gulped, “We… obviously don’t have time to read the whole thing. But maybe it’ll give an insight into what we’re fighting here?”

“We _know_ what we’re fighting,” Ryuji spat. It was like someone had flicked a switch: all the violent, childish glee he’d had from being here evaporated when he remembered why.

Lady Ann gave him a look. It was hard to tell if it was meant to be chiding or sympathetic, both somehow came out in her voice, “But it could give us a clue to _how_ we can.”

Ryuji made a rude noise, and he stormed off from the group to lean back against a bookcase, but raised no other protest. If he _really_ didn’t want to hear, he’d just go back out into the hall. Hell, maybe he’d be more useful out there, if he could keep watch between pouting.

Lady Ann grimaced, opened her mouth, then closed it again. Morgana wondered what she’d just swallowed. Something calming, no doubt: half of what she seemed to do these days was bring Ryuji to heel. Now, though, she looked to Akira, “Joker, do you mind…?”

“Sure,” he said as she took the seat next to Morgana’s table. Akira opened the book, reading aloud. He kept his tone as neutral as he could, “‘Rising in the world, the king will find himself surrounded by slaves and by servants, and he must through his own cunning discern which is which, and treat them accordingly. A servant is certainly lower than the king, but he must pretend the difference in their status is not so great.’”

Lady Ann translated, “Ashford students. He can’t just act like he’s better than them.”

Morgana nodded along, “Though it seems like he’d like to.” He was still struggling to remember the exact dynamics of the real world’s power structure. In a way, this was a skewed refresher course for him.

Akira continued, “‘This is owed to the servants’ natural inclination to band together. If the king is overly tyrannical to his servants, there are those who would seek to punish him for it. Even if he might ride out this petty vengeance, and even if the servants deserve tyranny, a king will do well not to incur such wrath.’” Akira looked up at the others, rolling his eyes, “Even when he’s saying he shouldn’t do something, he has to make sure it doesn’t sound like he _can’t_.”

“Well,” Morgana said, “He sees himself as a king, right? If there’s really people in the real world who’re his betters at Ashford, he has to justify it to himself.”

“It just seems dumb,” Akira said flatly.

It may have, but still, “You’ll find that palace rulers can convince themselves of just about anything if it makes their distortion make sense.”

“It _still_ seems dumb,” he shot back. It didn’t sound like he could be convinced otherwise (not, honestly, that Morgana disagreed). To prove it, he went back into the book, “‘A servant must therefore be rewarded for good work, perhaps even flattered if need be. But there will always be opportunity for the king to assert his authority, and he must seize each as it arises or risk losing it.’”

Lady Ann blew a raspberry, “Well… at the very least, that’s a confession.”

“Yeah,” Ryuji laughed, “Good luck getting it out of here. Let alone doin’ anything with _that_.”

The one would be hard, and the other would be all but impossible. But there was just a little too much venom to the way that he said it. Was he picking a fight?

A proper gentleman thief would jump to the lady’s defense. That was Morgana’s first instinct - but honestly, if Ryuji _was_ trying to start something with Lady Ann, good luck. But Morgana wouldn’t be the one to scoop up his ashes when it was over.

It didn’t come to that, thankfully. Lady Ann was fine just glaring a warning, snapping back, “It’s _important_ , Skull.”

One of his legs bobbed up and down, “Like… I’m sorry Ann, I just… given _everything else_ , it’s hard to care about how he treats a bunch of spoiled Brit kids.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Ann and Ryuji didn’t break eye contact for all of it. When the initial surprise faded from her face, it was replaced by cool… anger? Maybe it was just annoyance. Morgana definitely wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it, though.

She must’ve pushed down a million things to say to that before she settled on, “ _Panther_.”

_We will agree to disagree, and so I will let you live._

Ryuji flinched, murmuring, “Panther. Right. Sorry.” He meekly looked down at his shoes - but that leg kept bobbing.

Victorious, Ann looked at Akira, “Okay. If that’s all we’re gonna get out of that, then-”

“‘The king will also benefit from sowing division between his servants, particularly emphasizing the minuscule difference in power between them and his slaves,’” Akira said. He closed the book around a finger to keep his place, “I think _that’s_ the big takeaway. Kamoshida is powerful because he knows how to set people against each other. He can build contempt in the students and resentment in the staff, masking the fact that he’s _both_ of their enemies.” He looked meaningfully at Ryuji, and then at Ann, “They’re on the same side.”

A little ham fisted for Morgana’s liking. But the others seemed to like it - a romantic and a moron: Akira just knew his audience. The air at least felt a little less tense.

As such, Morgana felt a little more comfortable asking, “Joker, is there anything else important in there, or can we see what happens when we put it in the bookcase?”

Akira only held up a finger, which was annoying. The way he was corralling his teammates, he was already undermining Morgana’s position as leader enough, “‘By contrast, a slave has no recourse against the king.’” Ryuji grunted. That leg was looking more and more like a bull pawing the ground. But Akira went on, “‘While their stature is in truth not that different from the king’s servants, it may be more beneficial to think of…’” whatever came next gave him pause, but he ultimately kept going, “‘To think of them as objects.” Lady Ann balled her fists,” Therefore, the king may do as he likes with his slaves.’”

They all knew that much. All of them except for Ryuji had seen the dungeon, they _knew_ how Kamoshida treated those he considered lesser. From all the horror stories they’d told Morgana, they’d all _lived_ that. But to have him say it so matter-of-factly felt wrong. Even in a palace, it felt like Kamoshida should have some shame.

Slowly, Morgana looked at the others. Ryuji and Lady Ann were both way too close to this. If they’d had a bigger team, Morgana might’ve even suggested they sit this out - they were both such powder kegs when it came to Kamoshida’s distortions. Rage could be good, rage could get you far - but in the palace, you’d better hope that however far that was was far enough, because rage would also drain you.

He and Akira were far enough away from the worst of what Kamoshida could deal with him with clearer minds. And even then, Akira had so much anger in him: his teeth gritted as he finished the passage, “‘Deride them, strike them - abuse them however he pleases. In the event that one breaks, it will simply be replaced.’”

Ryuji swore, smashing his fist against the bookcase. Whatever he’d wanted to release hadn’t quite been let out, so he tried again. And again, and again, and again. He roared, “So that’s what he _fuckin’_ thinks of us? We’re just _this year’s model_?!”

It was volatile: it was going to attract the guards’ attention, or worse, set the others off. Lady Ann and Akira’s anger was so much softer, but Morgana got the feeling that it could burst at a moment’s notice.

So he needed to shut this down, “This is why we’re doing this. You’ve all witnessed his crimes firsthand: how much different is it really to hear him talk about them?”

“Not as much as I wish,” Lady Ann said, shaking her head as she got to her feet, “It’s like he isn’t even _human_. He knows what he’s doing, and just doesn’t _care_?”

Akira closed his eyes, crossed his arms. He was trying to speak evenly, but failing, “No matter how horribly he treats the staff, he knows that more students will line up for the job to get out of the ghetto. So what’s his incentive to treat them well?”

“Dude, he wasn’t _born_ a Britannian,” Ryuji spat as if that meant something, “That bastard had to go through the same shit that we did with occupation. He should… he should remember that. He should _feel_ something!”

“But he doesn’t,” Morgana said. He hopped from the table, taking Akira’s hand. The boy was tall enough that he had to stoop as he was dragged to the bookcase, “So come on. Everybody take a deep breath, and we’ll show him the error of his ways.”

They did as he asked, taking a moment before they pressed on. Akira flipped the book in his hands, wordlessly checking in with the others before he tried anything. When he placed it in the empty slot, he almost seemed grateful to be rid of it. Morgana didn’t blame him.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Morgana worried that the team had worked itself up so much for no payoff. Then the bookcase groaned, slowly swinging open like a door, revealing a walkway into a larger library. As Lady Ann had seen, the other half of the volleyball was on the other side.

What she could not have imagined was the fresco on the domed ceiling of the main room: Kamoshida against the backdrop of golden skies in the midst of a spike. He was surrounded on all sides by angels in white lace bra and panties. Some looked to him in wonder, others averted their gaze from him - either in awe or because he was punishingly nude. He had a strategically place fig leaf protecting what decency he pretended to, but otherwise… well, it was quite a display.

It was also the closest to King Kamoshida as Morgana knew him. Maybe he’d _thought_ that grin looked heroic and triumphant, but all Morgana could imagine was the big guy gleeful to crush the little guy. It had to be something in those wild eyes.

You would think there’d be some judgement in them. He soared above the library, clearly meant to be a god looking down on the mere mortals on earth. Yet he was unseeing. Somehow, no matter how Morgana tried to imagine anything else, all there was for Kamoshida in the painting was another victory. Anything beneath him was… well, it was _beneath him_.

The fresco was only the centerpiece of a much more massive library than that tiny little antechamber had hinted at. The library was just about as wide and as tall as the entrance hall - it was hard to tell: the shelves seemed endless here. There was no rhyme or reason to their layout: they varied in how high they rose and they jutted together at odd angles. The bookcases formed their own hallways, tunnels, stairways - a labyrinth. Who could tell how deep it all really went.

And yet, Morgana felt a throbbing in his head, “This is… huh.” Akira gave him a questioning look, and he said, “I think we’ll be closer to the treasure if we cut through here.”

“Y’know, ‘I think’ isn’t all that inspiring,” Ryuji said. Morgana knew the irritation in his voice was more directed at the celestial Kamoshida, but it still irked him.

He snapped, “Well it’s all I’ve got for you.”

Maybe Lady Ann deliberately went between them when she stepped into the hallway. But maybe not: she seemed genuinely transfixed by the towering stacks, “Look at all this… it can’t _all_ be about him, can it?”

Akira shrugged, “I mean, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he gestured to the ceiling, “But he’s got a pretty high opinion of himself.”

“Still though,” she murmured. Looking to the rest of the team, she added, “Maybe there’s something here he doesn’t want us to find?"

Ryuji thumbed at a bookcase. They were packed as packed to bursting in here as they’d been in the antechamber, “‘Cull the Weak: Kamoshida’s Guide to Coaching,’” he scoffed, “Yeah, real useful shit in here.”

Ann made an embarrassed noise, “But seriously: maybe it’s not all about the real world - if there’s this much of it, maybe the cognitive Kamoshida has stuff in here too.” She fumbled a little, “Maybe it could help us find the treasure?”

That wasn’t a bad idea. Lady Ann was still very much a layperson in regards to the Metaverse (Morgana had had to resist the urge to correct her that it was the _Shadow_ Kamoshida they were dealing with, not a _cognitive_ one in this context). But she was right: recon gathering could only be helpful. In fact it actually opened up a new avenue for Morgana to explore.

He remembered so little from being human, and had spent so much time in this form that he’d mostly stopped thinking about figuring out how to get his body back. But if Kamoshida’s shadow really was hiding his own secrets, not just his real world counterpart’s, surely there’d be _something_ in here about the thief he’d transformed into a cat? A book of spells, or maybe a guide to where he’d hidden Morgana’s real body.

_That_ might have been cause enough to derail the infiltration for at least a quick search. Before Morgana could voice these thoughts, though, there was a sound, something between a buzzing and bells chiming. Morgana’s head snapped in its direction. Nothing. But the quiet that followed felt unnatural: they were anything but alone in the palace.

Now that he was thinking of it, they’d gotten lucky so far: how much time had they just spent standing still and talking out in the open? It was a wonder no one had heard them.

In here, there was more space to hide themselves. But it didn’t mean anything if the others were going to get distracted again trying to make sense out of Kamoshida’s worldview.

Akira seemed to be thinking the same thing. He gave a furtive glance toward where the sound had been. One hand found his pocket again, the other trailing along the dusty spines of books, “Mona, what do you think? Would it be worth cutting through here?”

“I think so,” Morgana said, only feeling a little selfish. It probably _was_ the best course of action. It wasn’t like they’d be any more certain they were heading for the treasure if they headed back into the hallway. And if Morgana happened to find something useful to getting his body back, that could only benefit the team too, right? “Let’s spread out. Kamoshida seems to pack these shelves pretty tight: any missing book could potentially be another clue.”

If the others suspected he had any kind of ulterior motives, they at least humored him. Ryuji griped, but really that was to be expected. A guy like that had definitely signed on for the flashy, explosive parts of thievery. He wouldn’t have the others’ patience, their appreciation for the subtle approach.

Though Morgana had to admit, the subtle approach was slow going. He was already at a height disadvantage - which only got worse because of how _big_ Kamoshida built everything. More than once, he’d had to hop onto someone’s shoulder just to get a decent look at a potential lead.

That was, however, a bonus when that shoulder was Lady Ann’s. Sure, it was a little harder to get footing - she had slimmer shoulders than the boys and it turned out that vinyl was slippery. It was worth it, though: she had this intoxicating scent that Morgana couldn’t quite place. Not overpowering: sometimes you didn’t even notice it was there. But then it suddenly was, like a slight breeze on a summer night. Wonderful.

Admittedly, it was also distracting. He barely heard Lady Ann as she said, “Hold on. Check out these titles: ’Yuka Saotome,’ ‘Megumi Satō,’” she paused on one, darkly muttering, “‘Shiho Suzui.’”

The name reminded Morgana of where he was and what they were doing. His ears flattened against his head. Stupid: how could _he_ be the one losing sight of their goal at a time like this? Carefully, he said, “I don’t think that we… that is…” he gulped. This was hard to put delicately, “I don’t think we’re gonna find anything in those that we don’t already know. If you don’t want to-”

“I can’t believe there’s so many of them,” Ann said. Indeed, the row was filled with identical red books - a matching set. There were maybe two dozen, each with a name flanked by hearts for the title. Heat seemed to rise from underneath Morgana, “And I just let it happen under my nose this whole time.”

“You couldn’t have known, Panther,” Morgana said. He looked at the line of names - and at their head, the first empty space they’d seen on the shelves, “I almost don’t want to know what kind of book goes here. That is, assuming it fits the theme.”

Lady Ann smiled bitterly, “We owe it to _them_ to face it.”

Morgana wasn’t sure that _he_ owed them anything. If anything, he was their silent champion - all the more noble because he didn’t demand recognition. Lady Ann might not see it that way, and he totally understood that. But she couldn’t just beat herself up about this forever. Kamoshida was the only one she’d help by doing that.

He imagined saying that to her. And then he imagined Akira and Ryuji sweeping his remains into a dustbin after her retort.

Thankfully, he never had to come up with a response. His and Lady Ann’s attention was seized by a shrill, two-toned voice screaming, “Intruder! Intruder in the library!!!”

Just as loud, someone called out, “Wait a minu- seriously, shut the fuck up for a second..!” Of course it was Ryuji who’d got caught. Morgana and Lady Ann spared a brief exasperated look at one another, then through the winding stacks to his aid.

Akira swooped in from a higher shelf, taking point in front of them. It _had_ been a couple minutes since he got to lash out at something, he must’ve been itching for a fix by now. Between the three of them, whoever had caught Ryuji was in for a thrashing.

“Someone! Intruder! King Kamoshida!!!” They made a good beacon to hone in on: they wouldn’t shut up. Getting closer, it was plain to see why.

Ryuji stood at a dead end, fruitlessly swatting his pipe up at a fairy. It couldn’t have been a quarter his size, but there it was, still flitting out of the way of his strikes. Its wings beat frantically, and Morgana recognized the buzz he’d heard when they’d first come in. _This_ was what he’d been nervous about? It was just a little underwhelming.

All the effort Ryuji was putting into trying to land a hit… honestly, it was a little pathetic. The others relaxed their posture as well. Akira ran a hand through his hair, “Okay, seriously? _You_ again?”

It shrieked, pirouetting to face him. It was so weird to hear a shadow _not_ being blindly aggressive. Pointing accusingly at Akira, it said, “You! You said you’d be back by the entrance!”

“Well, yeah. I lied,” he said. Which, like, _of course_.

It huffed, crossing its arms and turning up its nose. Ryuji closed one eye and wound up in a batter’s stance, until a subtle gesture from Akira made him stand down. Pouting, the shadow said, “Honestly! You’d think you’d have a little more tact - you seriously think you’re ever gonna get the girl if you can’t be a little more truthful?”

There was a beat. Morgana whispered, “Does… does it even notice the rest of us?”

Lady Ann said, “Maybe it’s a cognitive thing? Like… Kamoshida thinks girls are…” she searched for the right words, settling on the truly blunt, “… like, really fucking dumb?”

He probably _did_ , but that still felt like it wasn’t the right explanation. Deadpan - he was actually doing a really good job rolling with this - Akira said, “Well I’m sorry. I guess I’ll try to be better about that going forward.”

It stuck its tongue out at him, “You better!” Huffing again, it flitted over by Akira, green light shimmering from its wings, “So what happens now?”

“Well… I _did_ give you the chance to get away,” he said, “Which, honestly, I thought was a little generous. So now you’ve got me in a tight spot - I can’t just let you go _again_.”

The weirdest thing was how it just nodded along with him. Twirling a curly red strand of hair around a finger, it considered, “Well… I mean… I could just go with _you_.”

Ryuji’s jaw dropped a little. Ever eloquent, he mouthed, ‘The fuck.’

Ann returned, ‘No idea.’

“Is that an option?” Akira asked, “I mean… you’ll be out of a job.”

“Please, like I need a job with _that_ creep,” the pixie sneered. Blinking slightly, it said, “Actually, now that I think about it… I’m not one of his guards at all, am I?” It floated before Akira now, really taking him in, “Yeah, that’s right… I’m a shadow! From the sea of souls!”

He wavered, “I mean… sure.”

“I am thou, thou art I. My name… is Pixie, right?” before Akira could respond, the shadow shimmered, glowing blue, then white, then dissipating entirely into an orb of energy. It dispersed. For just a moment, Akira’s mask had the same glow to it. Then nothing.

Akira stood there in silence. They all did: the whole exchange had just been so weird. Then he turned on a heel, calmly asking, “Okay, Mona. So what the hell just happened?”

“No idea,” Morgana breathed, though that wasn’t _quite_ true. He had an _idea_ , but he also didn’t dare hope that he was right. He’d already gotten insanely lucky, amassing three other persona users in such a short time. Hoping for _more_ was just getting greedy.

“I mean…” Lady Ann shrugged a little, “At least she’s not _screaming_ anymore, right?”

“Right,” Morgana agreed. He rounded on Ryuji, “Seriously, how did you get caught by _that_?”

“Hey, get off my back,” he snapped, waving a book that Morgana hadn’t noticed before, “One second I was checking this out, the next _she_ was in my face!”

“What’s _this_?” Akira asked, his eyes following the book. It’d serve Ryuji right if he just swiped it out of his hands.

Ryuji shrugged, “It was just lying here.” He held it out, and Akira took it, skimming over the title.

He whistled, “‘All Things in Their Place, Part Two: The Queen.’”

Lady Ann made a gagging noise, and the others looked at her. She gave an embarrassed smile, “I think… Mona and I might’ve found where that goes.”

“Do…” at least Ryuji had the tact to be careful asking this, “Do we want to see if we can find anything in it?”

She grimaced, “I don’t think it’ll be anything we don’t already know.”

“Still though…” Ryuji was visibly handpicking his words now, “If there _is_ something…”

Akira had faked nonchalance so easily before. Now it didn’t come off as natural at all, “You can tell me to shut up if it gets too close to home.”

Still, after a moment, Ann nodded, “Fine. Let’s hear it.”

“We’ll walk and talk. Skull, Mona, take the rear. Keep an eye out for shadows. Panther, lead the way,” Akira forced a sardonic smile, “Make sure I don’t walk into anything.” With that, he flipped the book open. He went quiet, and they all walked in silence for a while. Then he shut the book with a snap, snarling to himself. “It’s… what you’d expect.”

“Hit me,” Lady Ann sighed, “Otherwise I’ll just be wondering about it now.”

“You’re sure?” he asked. She nodded, and just a little reluctantly, Akira opened the book back up, “‘When the weight of rule grows too great for the king, he will seek a companion with whom to relieve himself.’” Lady Ann laughed without mirth, “‘Only the most beautiful will do, but the king must be wary not to seek a partner outside his station.’”

“‘Outside?’” Lady Ann repeated. She flicked a pigtail back - she was trying _way_ too hard to come off as unaffected, “Interesting way to say ‘above.’”

“His ego wouldn’t be able to take that,” Morgana reassured her, the others muttering their agreement.

Akira went on, “‘He must seek both someone he can bend to his will, and that he has a will to bend. She is his queen, and the king must stop at nothing to make her his.’”

He paused, looking Lady Ann’s way for permission to go on. She didn’t say anything one way or the other. If her fist was clenched a little tighter around her whip, good. The better to defend herself. Her voice was clipped, “Anything else?”

After a moment he visibly considered just saying no, Akira continued, “‘Until this is accomplished, the king’s may utilize slaves a surrogate. Needless to say, these may be cast aside when no longer useful. Indeed, the same can be said of the queen herself.’” He breathed in, closing the book, “I think that’s enough.” More than, if anything.

They went on a few paces more without talking, just stewing in that. It was such a bold faced confession, but honestly, Morgana had expected they’d find more of those as they went in. It still left a bad taste in his mouth.

It must’ve left one in Ryuji’s too. Out of nowhere, he screamed in frustration, slashing his pipe impotently through the air. Akira and Morgana hissed a wordless reprimand, but accomplished the opposite of what they’d wanted, “No but… what the _fuck_?! That fucking psycho seriously just thinks-”

“Yes, Skull, he does,” Lady Ann growled. Morgana was sure he was imagining the wave of heat that radiated from her. It, and her rising shout, still unnerved him, “To him, Shiho isn’t even a _person_. Not even a whipping girl, just a… a fucking stand in. For _me_.”

The thought was enough to make her lose control. It only lasted a second - if Carmen had manifested physically, Morgana must’ve blinked and missed her. But he still felt the flare in his face. The others must have too.

“A-” Ryuji caught himself a moment from stepping on a landmine, “Panther. You know… what happened wasn’t-”

“Oh, I _know_ whose fault it is, don’t worry.” He flinched. If she noticed, she didn’t care, “He’s just… got me rethinking a few things.”

None of them needed to ask _what_ things. Morgana swallowed spit - it might’ve made his heart sink somewhere down into his stomach. The discussion they’d all had at the start of things - where Lady Ann and Ryuji had seriously considered killing Kamoshida and being done with it - had been maybe the most disturbing moment of his tenure as team leader.

Morgana was convinced they were fundamentally good - he would never have found his way to their side, if they weren’t. But they were rough around the edges - rougher than he’d ever imagined. A bunch of school kids fresh into the Metaverse? They should’ve recoiled in horror at the thought of killing someone. Instead, for a minute Morgana had thought they would take to the task without blinking. What could he, an outsider to their problems, have said to convince them otherwise?

Thank goodness for Akira. Back then, he’d convinced them to be thieves, not assassins. He came through for Morgana again now. He didn’t even have to do much, all he did was stop in his tracks and ask, “Seriously?”

Lady Ann stopped too, rounding on him. He stayed cool and collected, just waiting for her response. It was, ultimately, to fold, “… no. Not…” she let out a ragged sigh, “It’d just be a lot easier, okay?”

“It would,” Akira said, though it didn’t really sound like agreement, “Giving up would be even easier.”

“Nah, fuck that,” Ryuji said, “Just ‘cause it’s _easier_ doesn’t mean…” he trailed off, and only a little late, he got it. Akira flashed a cheeky grin.

“Point taken,” Lady Ann murmured. Her anger hadn’t died - just faded to a smolder, “I still want to see him pay.”

“We all do,” Morgana said. They’d come back to the bookcase with that morbid list of names, “One step at a time. Joker, if you’d take the next one…?”

Akira nodded, stepping forward to put the Queen book into place.

Once again, it took the world a moment to catch up to the change. Then the bookcase creaked in protest, leaning back like the added weight was too much for it. Above, a stained glass window opened to the black and red Metaverse skies. Slowly, the case tipped backwards until the top shelf touched the bottom of the window. It had almost found its way to a forty-five degree angle by then: Morgana had to wonder at how much it looked like a stairway now.

Akira must’ve been thinking the same thing. He put a foot on the bottom shelf, “Think it’ll support our weight?”

“We could send the cat first,” Ryuji suggested. The usual anger flared up in Morgana’s chest - at this point, they were just _trying_ to piss him off. Ryuji ignored his protest, though, adding, “If it won’t support _him_ , it won’t support any of us. This way we see what’s up there no matter what.”

“And what if it’s a trap, smart guy?” Morgana yowled, though he had to admit that the reasoning was good, for Ryuji, “You want to just send one of us alone up there to face it? If anything, we should send _you_!” The boy squawked in protest, and Morgana crossed his arms triumphantly, “I bet you weigh the most out of any of us-”

“Only ‘cause muscle weighs more than fur, fuzzball!”

“ _And_ you’re the most expendable!”

Ryuji swooped down to his level. If looks could kill… well, then Morgana would have given as good as he was getting, “You wanna say that again!?”

“Oh for fuck’s…” Lady Ann took a few steps onto the bookcase. It groaned under her feet - and under Akira’s, when he followed her. But it held just fine, “ _There_. Come on.”

“Or just kill each other quickly,” Akira said. Now _that_ was a betrayal. Like _he_ was so above it! “Winner can join us up top.”

Lady Ann swatted his shoulder, which he one hundred percent deserved. Then the two of them started heading up. Ryuji let out a breath through his nose. Morgana thought of a bull. The two of them glared at each other. Morgana put a paw to his eyes then pointed it at Ryuji. He had to admit, Ryuji’s actual fingers made the gesture work a little better when he returned it.

He’d still get to the top of the stairway first. Which was some consolation.

The path took them back outside. When he first smelled the misty Metaverse air, Morgana was more confused than anything. Surely they’d had more of the palace to delve into before they reached the other side?

Then he saw where they were, and his breath hitched.

They stood on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. They weren’t quite as high up as they’d had to climb for their initial entrance, but now they had a better view of the inner palace. From the front, the palace had looked like one massive fortress, but from here, you could clearly that it was actually several separate structures, separated by hedgerows and a winding maze of rubble and ruin. Here, domes and minarets sprang up, shining almost like glass. There, a tower rose high into the night sky, pulsing veins winding around and around until they joined in a single black growth at the top. It somehow hurt to look at: a dull throb like a beating heart, thumping in Morgana’s head.

That was where Akira was looking. He put a hand on his hip and whistled, “Think that’s where we’re going?”

“There’s a pretty good chance,” Morgana said. He scanned the nearby walls, trying to choreograph the best possible path there. It was almost impossible: the maze below was dizzying to look at. In the haze, it was hard to even tell whether the tower was behind or growing out of another building, “The trouble is getting over there…”

“What’re you talking about?” Ryuji asked, leaning over the railing for his own look, “Fastest way is forward, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Morgana sighed. _This_ really wasn’t something he should have to explain, “But good luck going through all the walls and the guards. If that’s where Kamoshida’s keeping his treasure, we’ll need to watch out for guards.”

Ryuji blew a disbelieving raspberry, but didn’t offer a better argument than that. Rightly ignoring him, Ann cupped her chin in thought, “Then we obviously don’t want to pick any fights just yet either - better to conserve our energy for the fights we _have_ to fight.”

At least _someone_ was keeping up. Morgana flashed her a grin, “Perceptive as always, Panther.” He ignored the sideways looks the boys gave each other. They were only jealous because _they_ didn’t know the meaning of the word smooth. He eyed the headache of a way forward again, hopping up onto the railing, “I think… that the best way forward would be to split up.”

Akira leaned beside him, nodding in agreement, “I was thinking the same thing. Two teams: that way we can cover more ground.”

It stole Morgana’s thunder a little, but he really was learning. Patting Akira’s shoulder, Morgana added, “Exactly. Small enough teams that we stick to the shadows - and _don’t engage_.”

Too playfully, Akira added, “Unless we know we can win, and win quickly.”

“Only if it’s _so quickly_ they can’t raise an alarm.” He had to be firm on this. Give these guys an inch to take some of their frustrations out, and they’d take light years none of them could afford.

Akira waved it off, turning on a heel to face the team. He leaned precariously back on the railing, “I was thinking one team goes below into the courtyard, the other sees what we can find in the upper hallways.” With an excited grin, he added, “And the rooftops.”

“ _I_ should take those,” Morgana said, “I’m easily the most agile of us up top.” He had no idea if that was true, but it _should have_ been. This body had to have _some_ benefits.

“Guys.” Ann said, “That’s all well and good, but what if one of the teams _does_ run into trouble? The other day, we basically needed all of us working together just to stay alive.”

“Can you shoot off a flare?” Akira asked. She considered it, nodding noncommittally, “And Skull, you probably can too.”

“Panther can come with me up top!” Morgana chirped.

“Of course she can,” Ryuji muttered, not as low as he thought.

Akira kicked off the railing, saying, “Gives us a chance to cause some trouble, Skull.”

Lady Ann grimaced, “Please don’t.”

The boys made promises, no doubt empty ones. Whatever: if they couldn’t follow the rules, _they’d_ be the ones paying for it.

All that that left was a test. Akira’s human flare idea was all well and good, but if it wasn’t going to work, better to know now than when they needed it.

Ryuji and Lady Ann stepped forward, facing each other. Each took a deep breath, nodding once they were ready. At their call, Kidd and Carmen sprang to life. Fire danced around and around Lady Ann’s arm, and she raised it high. Morgana could feel the heat on his face as a pillar of flame burst into the night sky. Ryuji mimicked the action, his arm flashing once before he released, and thunder roared. Crooked streams of lightning wound their way up the pillar, branching off in a wild display of power.

Honestly, the light show was almost beautiful to watch. Their power, their anger was feeding off one another. Morgana and Akira locked eyes: the boy nodded in understanding. He’d also figured out that _that_ was why they needed to separate them.

Their indignation was righteous, sure. But it would only blow up in their faces if they lost control. The risk was high enough without someone just as angry to egg them on.

The fire died down. Thunder rumbled one last time, and then it too faded. Akira grinned cheekily, “Well. That settles that.”

“We should get moving,” Morgana agreed, “The guards _definitely_ saw that.”

“Right,” Lady Ann and Ryuji said together. He added, “See you on the other side.”

Then he and Akira disappeared over the railing. They didn’t even make an _attempt_ to climb down, just going into freefall. Their personas flared to life to catch them, and Morgana quickly lost sight of the boys as they rounded their first corner.

Part of him was nervous. Another insisted that they’d be fine without him. Yet another wasn’t sure that was such a good thing.

Lady Ann nudged him, “We should get going too, Mona.”

“Yeah…” it hurt a little to abandon the library. Morgana wasn’t sure what he’d have found, but it felt like he was turning his back on the closest thing he’d ever had to a lead.

All he was doing was putting the team’s needs first. Like a leader should. He scrutinized the rooftops again, looking for the quickest pathway to the first open window. Tackling the whole path at once was a fool’s errand: as long as Morgana could get them from Point A to Point B, and from Point B to Point C, and so on, the overall connection would make itself.

Point B revealed itself, and Morgana hopped onto the railing, “Follow my lead, Panther.”

* * *

**August 10, 2017 A.T.B. - Ryuji**

“Above!” Akira shouted. By instinct, Ryuji stopped in his tracks, just short of a pair of imps swooping down to skewer the air where he’d been. One had delivered itself just into batting range. He swung without thinking, and the creature careened off into a wall.

The other hissed, rearing back - but Akira had already kicked off a wall to bring his knife into its head. The creature dissipated in a cloud of smoke and the two raced on.

That was basically how things had been going since they’d split off from Ann and Morgana. To be honest, Ryuji relished the change. They finally got to do something without the cat telling them off. This was the real shit. _This_ was what he’d come back to the Metaverse for.

‘Hey, guy. You think I don’t deserve justice? Too bad, I’m _taking_ it!’

Thank god the library was over. It had swung back and forth from mind numbing to infuriating. Nothing they’d read had really been anything _new_ , but hearing it again always somehow made it even more real.

‘In the event that one breaks, it will simply be replaced.’

There weren’t enough guards in the world to make that one okay. Ryuji could tear this whole place down until not one brick was left on top of another, and that would still boil under his skin.

Every little bit helped, though. Some more shadows oozed to life in their path. Ryuji called on Captain Kidd, and the two of them clawed out at the wall of the too-cramped pathway as they ran past, flinging shards of stone they’d dug up. These sparked with Kidd’s electricity, tearing through the shadows with a satisfying crackle.

With all the dust it kicked up, Ryuji half expected it to blow up the wall. The jagged, burned scars it left behind were just as good.

Akira must’ve seen a foothold somewhere in there: there was no way he’d just _run up_ the wall without one. He stood above, hands on hips, surveying the area around them, before kneeling down to take Ryuji’s forearm. With only a few embarrassing grunts of exertion from both of them, they managed to pull him up too.

The view above was only a little less constricted than it had been below. They’d clearly made some distance from where they’d split up, but Ryuji was pretty sure the balcony was still in sight - unless they’d gotten _completely_ turned around in the maze, they were looking at somewhere else entirely.

Akira pointed to their left, towards the Taj Mahal-looking place they’d seen, “So I’m thinking that’s our next stop.”

“Thought we were makin’ a beeline for the treasure?” Ryuji asked. Not that he was complaining about the occasional detour - it wasn’t like they had a clear way forward.

Akira echoed those thoughts, “Yeah. We don’t _know_ that it’s in the tower, though.” He winked, “And not gonna lie, I’m a little curious what’s in there.”

“Yeah,” Ryuji agreed. A thought occurred to him, and he let out an excited gasp, “Dude, what if he’s keepin’ some kind of like, secret death laser or knightmare frame in there??”

That only made Akira laugh, “Dunno if that’d fit the _theme_ …” he gestured to the castle courtyard looming around them, “But that’d be pretty sweet.”

“Right?!”

Whatever Akira had been going to say to that, he was interrupted by a two toned voice below, “Hey, what’s that on the wall?”

He sighed, “Crap, we gotta go.” Almost in the same movement, the two of them dropped back down on the other side of the wall, picked a direction, and ran.

The wind whipping past him reminded Ryuji of the first time he’d been running in here. He’d _felt_ powerful then, but he’d had no idea what power was. _Now_ he did, and _now_ it was a high he never wanted to come down from.

He was so lost in the exhilaration that he nearly raced past their goal. Luckily Akira was only a step behind him, catching Ryuji’s collar. Not firm enough to stop him, but enough to get his attention so he’d skid to a stop on his own. There was a topiary wall surrounding the building: Akira gestured to it, and they took up a position on one of its corners for recon.

Recon. Like this was a real heist and they were real thieves. Awesome.

The whole building shone with a pale yellow light. It wasn’t clear if there was some inner light source, or if that was just some kind of magical glow that it had. Two hunched guards stood at the curved glass entryway. It was almost weird to see them standing still: they’d seen so many shadows wandering the hallways, you started to forget that they were supposed to be actual guards. Another passed right in front of the archway, looping back around to circle the building. Yet more seemed to be making the rounds inside.

Akira’s voice was almost too low for Ryuji to hear, “They’ve got the place locked down pretty tight. Wonder what they’re guarding.”

“The treasure?” Ryuji suggested with a grin. Wouldn’t that be just the thing: ‘hey cat, not only were you _wrong_ , but me and Joker found the _real_ treasure!’ He punched his palm in excitement, “Let’s take those guys down and find out!

“Might be too many for that…” Akira murmured. He rattled off the list, holding up a finger for each, “Two by the door, at least one circling the building, at least two _in_ the building…” he sighed, “Not to mention they tend to split into multiple shadows once they see us…”

That sounded like probably too many. Still, Ryuji elbowed him, “What, you don’t think we can take them?”

Akira smirked, “I _know_ we can take them. Not so sure if we can take them _and_ everyone in there at the same time.”

Ryuji shrugged, “‘aight. Then we’ll just circle the building, see if we can’t find another way in.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

The trickiest part was getting past the two stationed by the door. Otherwise, they could’ve just rounded the corner and at least been in the general yard space for the building. As it was, they’d be spotted the second they crossed through the archway, and that was the same as picking the fight themselves.

So instead, they waited for the one circling the building to pass by again. The wait was excruciating. Ryuji’s mind wandered off from him, back to the real world. They were only giving Kamoshida a few extra seconds, but what would he do with them?

_Finally_ it shuffled past them again, grumbling about the cold, “Figures I’d get stuck outside for the celebration.” It seemed like such a mundane problem for a guard-monster to have.

Akira gave it a few more seconds once the creature passed, then darted back, eyeing the wall. He moved the way you’d _expect_ a thief to - all silk and silence. Comparatively, Ryuji felt like someone had strapped pots and pans to his feet. Maybe the movement came with practice.

Without warning, Akira leaped up the wall - seriously, how was he spotting the hedges that would support his weight? He pulled Ryuji up, and both of them dropped down on the other side before they could attract attention.

The building’s glow was just a little bit maddening. Kamoshida had left them some cover: he’d planted spiraling topiaries along the inner walls, and there were a few trees here and there. They could circle the building by sticking to the shadows, but that felt wrong, somehow. Didn’t having a persona mean they should be able to bust in wherever they felt like?

Akira held up a fist, and they stopped in their tracks behind a tree. Ryuji willed himself to stop breathing, his heart to stop beating. There were faint footsteps crunching on gravel, slowly fading from hearing. If he really concentrated, Ryuji thought he might’ve heard trickling water - was this supposed to be some kind of zen garden?

He let himself breathe again when Akira did. When he did, he locked eyes with Ryuji, mouthing, “‘Celebration?’”

Ryuji blinked in confusion just a moment before it clicked. Quietly as he could, he said, “The holiday. Maybe _he’s_ doin’ something for it too?” It’d make sense: the reason that bastard could even pretend he had power was because he’d sold out to Britannia. He probably thought the Invasion was a godsend.

Akira only shrugged. He was so much better at staying quiet in these moments: as if to demonstrate, he jerked a thumb twice around the other side of the tree. Ryuji stole a glance: there was a window open on an upper floor, spilling a little more light into the courtyard. The patterns of the building’s brickwork zigzagged across its face. If they were deep enough to grab onto, that window was their way in.

And if Ryuji had picked up on it, it must’ve been _way_ too obvious a way in.

“Do we know that’s not an ambush up there?” he whispered.

He had to admit, he didn’t really care one way or the other. By the glint in Akira’s eyes before he took off, neither did he.

All Ryuji could do was follow: if it _was_ a trap, he wasn’t gonna let him walk into alone. _Or_ have all the fun.

He was officially calling bullshit on Akira’s flippy shit, though. He practically _flowed_ up the wall, pulling himself up from one groove to another like it was nothing. There was no way he was that graceful in real life without being some kind of gymnastics star, or like, a ninja. That _had_ to be persona bullshit.

_So c’mon, Cap’n, let me in on that._

No such luck. He grunted a little too loudly when his foot touched off the wall - no time to worry about that while he was reaching for the next handhold. It felt like he was just throwing himself up again and again, and he was _sure_ that a guard must’ve heard the racket he was making doing it. At the very least, he must’ve hurt the wall climbing it. They’d notice that.

But he still reached the top, flinging himself over the railing and inside with one last grunt. Ryuji landed unceremoniously on his ass. The floor was apparently marble, and the rolling red carpet or the rose petals on it didn’t do anything to disguise that. Akira gave him a thumbs up, “Nice one.”

Ryuji’s first instinct was to tell him off. His second one pointed out that that hadn’t _necessarily_ been sarcastic. He pulled himself to his feet, looking around. Busts of Kamoshida lined the walls, because of course they did. They were surrounded by glass cases, which was a crying shame, because without the cat around to bitch about it, Ryuji would’ve loved the opportunity to at least knock them all over.

Between the statues, the walls had the same vaguely old-European wallpapering as the rest of the palace had. Occasionally, there’d be a candelabra or pair of crossed St. Georges to fill the empty space. Ryuji couldn’t really tell where the glow had been coming from: this place had shone from the outside, but now that they were _here_ , it didn’t feel any different from anywhere else they’d been.

“So what do you think this place is even supposed to be?” Ryuji asked. He was sure he’d imagined that echo: he was keeping his voice low.

Akira shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine. This is deeper than I’ve ever been. Somewhere on campus, you’d think.” He stopped suddenly, “Hold up.”

Ryuji did, following his gaze down the hall to a guard peering over a distant railing. It seemed to fidget back and forth, but never bothered to check behind it. Akira cracked his neck, “Let’s see if we can get him before he notices us.”

He took off before Ryuji could say anything - so of course he followed after him. The guard started to turn just in time for Akira to flip over onto its back, separating shadow from mask with a quick tear. Ryuji reared back, but it was Captain Kidd’s hand that grasped the shadow’s exposed face. The creature shook violently for a few seconds, then disintegrated. Thunder rumbled as Akira dropped down, “Nice.”

“Totally,” Ryuji breathed. The two of them turned their focus below: it looked like… maybe another ballroom or something? It had the space for it. Actually, more likely it was a church, judging by the rows and rows of wooden pews (almost all empty, save for a few in the front seating shadows, and a few in the back with some girls dressed like nuns, of all things).

The rear window of the place took up the entire back wall - and several stories worth of wall, for that matter. It was stained glass, vaguely abstract - there was a lot of blue with a red cross splitting the painting up. Before it, the biggest testament yet to Kamoshida’s ego stood. It must’ve been forty feet tall and made from solid gold. _It_ was the source of the light, shining so bright it actually hurt to look at. And it was, of course, Kamoshida - grinning like an idiot out at the huddled masses come to worship.

“You gotta be _fucking_ kidding me,” Ryuji hissed. Akira rolled his eyes in agreement, “Who does that jackass think he is?”

“God,” Akira muttered. After a second, Ryuji wondered if that was his own indignation or just an answer. He peeked over the edge again, gritting his teeth, “Speaking of…”

Ryuji followed his gaze to the statue’s feet (god, there were even little golden hairs on his legs). And there he was, his hands raised in the same inviting gesture the statue held. Kamoshida’s cape seemed to sway a little - how did it do that without a breeze? And how did he keep that arrogant grin when Ann and Akira had been kicking his ass for a week now?

His voice rang throughout the temple, “Loyal Subjects: today we enter into another year of my eternal, glorious reign!”

Shadows clattered swords on shields. The nuns in the back shrieked with joy, “We love you, King Kamoshida!”

He raised his hands higher, calling for quiet, “And I love you, my precious subjects. I swear to you, by the divine judgement which has named me king, I will continue to rule over this castle with love and with vigor.” He took a moment to leer at them, and it was all Ryuji could do not to call up Kidd and throw a lightning bolt at him. That’d show him what divine judgement _really_ looked like.

“Now,” Kamoshida said, “Let us bow our heads, and look upon the face of God.”

The hall fell into silence at that - for just a moment, the shadows murmured to each other. But they obeyed him. All took to a knee. The nuns clasped their hands - the guards did as near as they could without dropping their weapons. Even Kamoshida himself unclasped the cape around his shoulders, neatly folding it before him. He bowed low, touching his head to the fabric.

The statue began to shine brighter, until Ryuji actually did have to avert his gaze. He hissed, “The fuck is going on!?”

“I… don’t know…” Akira said. Was that dread or wonder or some combination of the two, “Could this be the treasure?”

“Mona never _did_ tell us what it’d look like…” Ryuji said, ducking down to avoid the glare. At this point, just how much light was flooding in was going to give them away. In a world turning white, Ryuji and Akira were the only two jackasses in all black. How could you _miss_ them?

The light started to fade, and Ryuji heard gasps and shouts from below. He should have had the sense to keep from looking. But he didn’t, and his own breath caught in his throat.

Before the statue floated what could only be described as an angel. Eleven white feathery wings enveloped the creature. Even through their folds, light shone like a newborn sun. Slowly, they uncurled, and the man within hovered with an aloof pride. He was leanly muscled, naked except for a fluttering white loincloth at his waist. His skin seemed to sparkle like topaz, and his features seemed uncanny, like a marble statue _almost_ come to life. When he opened them, his eyes burned. Golden hair spilled down his back.

Ryuji had seen enough paintings, passed by enough news broadcasts, lived in Area 11 long enough to recognize the angel, even distorted like this.

Clovis la Britannia did not shout, but his voice still echoed off the walls - Ryuji could feel it in his teeth, “Great King Kamoshida: be not afraid.”

Kamoshida pulled himself out of his bow, but remained kneeling. He wavered - Ryuji hadn’t known he could do that, “All powerful Viceroy, another year has passed,” he bowed again, meekly calling out, “I ask your favor, that I may rule in your name a little longer.”

The angelic Clovis’s face did not move: it didn’t seem to care about Kamoshida’s submission at all, “We have looked on your works and you have been found… adequate.”

Kamoshida nodded vigorously, clasping his hands before the viceroy, “Yes, Your Magnificence! The weak and the lazy slaves are being culled as we speak: only the fittest will survive in Castle Kamoshida!” He bowed his head again, “All this for your glory!”

Ryuji grit his teeth. This was pathetic. He didn’t _want_ to see Kamoshida pathetic. Or he did, but not like this. Everything in the Metaverse was supposed to _mean_ something. So what was Kamoshida trying to tell himself with this display?

Was this the closest thing he had to a conscience? Did he just insist to himself that he _had_ to be a monster in the real world, that was what Britannia _wanted_? Was that how he justified what he’d done to Ryuji? To Suzui?

“You’re sparking,” Akira hissed. Ryuji caught himself, breathed. If there was _ever_ a time to control himself, it was in front of a creature that _Kamoshida_ was so visibly afraid of.

Clovis spoke again, “You tell Us of your works. They are many, and they are satisfactory.” Kamoshida rang his hands together in silent thanks. The angel’s wings flapped, and it hovered a little lower, “Tell Us of the intruders.”

Kamoshida’s jaw quivered. Clovis cocked his head - he _almost_ looked amused. Tensing, Kamoshida said, “Your Eminence, these are only a few isolated incidents from a select few malcontents! They’re far, far beneath the notice of Your Immacula-”

“They are,” Clovis said, “Speak on them anyway.”

Kamoshida gulped, “They… are being dealt with. My guards are on high alert. Any moment now, they will inform me that the intruders have been captured and killed.”

Ryuji waggled his eyebrows at Akira, who only grinned. Kamoshida really _was_ worried about them. Good. He should’ve been.

“Adequate,” Clovis said, “See it done sooner than later. Your rule shall be absolute, or it shall not be at all. You have the Most High’s favor, but be wary that that may change at any moment.”

Kamoshida breathed a sigh of relief, bowing his head, “Yes, Your Magnificence. Thank you, Your Magnificence.”

It hit like a punch in the gut. Ryuji recognized that barely disguised bitterness: he’d tasted it on his own tongue as recently as today. It wasn’t the same. Kamoshida _chose_ to be a slave. And then he pretended the choice made him better than everyone else, who’d been forced into it.

“Therefore,” Clovis boomed, “We would ask of you: why do you suffer the intruders to live, even in this holiest of places?”

What?

Wait.

_Fuck_.

It was almost comical how everyone’s eyes turned their way. Akira gave Ryuji a wide eyed glance. Ryuji returned it in kind. For just a moment, neither of them knew what to do.

And then they both did. Akira grinned with confidence he couldn’t _possibly_ feel, casually waving to the crowd below, “Yo.”

Ryuji followed his energy, popping up onto the railing and flipping double deuces, “Hey! Sorry to crash your culty-ass party, but we figured we’d drop in and fuck you up before we take the treasure!”

Kamoshida sprang to his feet, and his face was priceless. He had this tight knit look of abject humiliation mixed with a healthy dose of hate. He’d flagrantly put his abuse on display, even brag about it to psyche Ryuji out. But _this_ was something he didn’t want them to see: the sight of him weak and groveling.

Spittle spurted from his mouth as he roared, “Don’t just stand there, you idiots! Get them!!!”

The guards in the front row began to spasm and transform, even as Clovis slowly turned to face Ryuji. As he raised it, his hand began to shine brighter, “No need.” His hand kicked back like a cannon’s recoil. The air shrieked around the light that emerged, and the next moment the balcony shattered and splintered under them in a swirling mass of shrapnel and energy.

Ryuji had already dived before the eruption, or even before he realized he was doing it. Captain Kidd must have jolted him into action - or spending half his life in a war zone had tuned his reflexes.

Either way, he was crash landing on the temple floor now. The fall sent ripples of protest up his joints - but it was better than still being up there. The explosion didn’t seem to want to settle: it just rose and rose, swirled and swirled. It ripped through the ceiling and into the sky, picking up more rubble as it did.

Akira called on Arsène a few paces from Ryuji. The demon flashed into and out of existence, dragging shadows with it. Ryuji shouted for Kidd, who in turn rained down havoc. Lesser shadows were consumed by the blasts, and others were at least as staggered.

Frantically, Akira shouted, “Skull, watch for an opening!” Easier said than done. They were surrounded. Things didn’t look quite as bad as they had been in the entrance hall.

But even without help, Clovis would have been the real problem. Airily, he tucked a golden lock behind his ear, “Insects.”

With a flick of his finger, the pillar of light flashed and faded - and all the rubble it had picked up came crashing back to earth. No, it wasn’t crashing - it was more like it was being thrown. Like Clovis had turned the world around them into an airstrike.

The ground shook as these makeshift meteors landed. Captain Kidd appeared abruptly above Ryuji’s head, his cannon arm the only thing keeping a splinter of wood and rock from turning them both into a red stain on the ground. Ryuji nodded a brief, stunned thanks, jumping back to Akira’s side. Kidd vanished, and the shrapnel collapsed.

Thunder rained down again from above: Kidd sailed through the skies to provide cover. His ordinance and Clovis’s meteor shower held the shadows back. They seemed wary to get too close - and rightly so. Even if they somehow got past the raining death, that left the two of them to contend with. Akira’s blade danced. It was too hard to try for his grace when all you had was a lead pipe, so Ryuji didn’t. Akira could be the ninja: _he’d_ be the oni. He swung and roared, smashed and crushed. It probably was ugly as sin, but heads got busted, and that was all that mattered. And it _felt_ like a dream.

Ryuji would’ve been so confident in their chances if only he couldn’t see Clovis.

Nothing on that alabaster face changed, even as the tide of battle turned. _Kamoshida_ might rave, but the fire in the Clovis’s eyes was utterly impassive.

It made sense, in a way: what did _he_ care how this went? If Kamoshida won, fine, that was business as usual. If Ryuji and Akira did… even Kamoshida’s ego-castle knew that a prince of Britannia could find another lapdog.

Maybe it was Ryuji’s imagination, but he could’ve sworn he saw Clovis’s lip curl upward. It was only there a second, and then his face was stone again, but the image still burned in his mind. _They_ were fighting for their lives, and _he_ was amused.

As far as _he_ cared, the Elevens could just tear each other apart.

Ryuji saw red, and had called Kidd back to his side before he knew what he was doing. Akira looked his way, his blade glancing off a horseman’s lance, “Skull, what’re you..?”

“Making an opening,” Ryuji seethed. Kidd gripped his cannon arm, lightning crackling in the barrel. Ryuji stepped forward, roaring at the angel, “Think you can fucking look down on us?!” The lightning reached a high-pitched, tea kettle whine, and Ryuji felt a numb, wild grin on his face, “Think again!”

When Kidd fired, Ryuji had to take a step back from the recoil. The beam was brilliant and blinding blue as it through the air. All eyes went to it, all hearts stopped. _This_ was Ryuji’s power.

And Clovis lazily held up a hand, and the beam surged into it like a lightning rod. Faintly, his palm glowed. But other than that, all that remained were a few sad shimmers and the faint smell of ozone.

A thin bead of sweat dripped down Kamoshida’s forehead, and he let out a giddy laugh, “Idiot! Do you really think you’re a match for the Viceroy?” He looked over his shoulder at Clovis, not even trying to disguise the jealousy in his eyes, “Even _I_ am no match for His Opulence.”

“So dull,” Clovis murmured. He curled the hand he’d used to block the beam upward, and the air began to hum. Ryuji’s eyes widened as realization struck. By some miracle, he and Akira were already moving before the cognition returned fire. A new, wider beam of light erupted from the ground, shaking the building to its foundation.

Akira panted beside Ryuji, the two of them watching this new pillar of light grow, ripping off chunks of the temple wholesale, “We’re not gonna beat him. If Kamoshida _thinks_ Clovis is unstoppable…”

“That asshole thinks _he’s_ unstoppable!” Ryuji spat back. But he had to admit, Akira was right. If Kamoshida had built this palace out of how he saw the real world, he had to reflect Britannia somehow. It did more than just surround you: it constantly shoved you up against a wall and reminded you that _it_ was strong and _you_ were weak. If the run of the mill Britannian was a cut above an Eleven, what did that make a royal one. Apparently, an all powerful angel.

Retreating was the smart move. So Ryuji understood why Akira shouted in protest when he called for the Captain one more time. The wind ripped around Kidd as he burst back to life just at the rear of the temple, ramming through the stained glass. Ryuji grinned sheepishly, “Our way out.”

Akira didn’t have time to react and Ryuji didn’t have time to see if he did. They took off, ducking around a new rain of light, trying not to stay in a straight, predictable line for too long. Crumbling brightness gave way to open black skies, and Ryuji had never missed them more. They didn’t stop running, returning to the winding corridors of the courtyard.

Something burst behind them. Ryuji looked over his shoulder to see Clovis ascending, from the temple. Higher and higher he went, until he was a particularly bright, particularly big, particularly terrifying star. A beam flashed across the sky, and something behind them burned. Another, and it was something ahead of them.

But further away. He was guessing.

“Joker, I think he might not have spotted us!” Ryuji had no idea if Akira heard him. If he did, he made no effort to stop running. Probably not the worst idea.

There was another sound behind them, like a whip cracking and rolling itself back up. Ryuji looked to the source, nearly jumping out of his skin to see Kamoshida racing after them atop one of the labyrinth walls. He flashed a cheeky grin, only a few paces behind the two.

Kamoshida stopped suddenly, his head rearing back. He made a noise like a cornered lizard, and his friggin’ _tongue_ just shot out of his head. It extended like some sort of grappling hook, whipping at Akira’s heels before zipping back up, “Almost gotcha, you damn thief!”

“Hey, guy!” Ryuji roared. The Captain appeared behind him, picking him up by the scruff of his neck to toss him up to the wall, “How about _fuck you_ instead!?”

He swung with all his might before he could so much as get footing - he did _not_ stick the landing. One foot missed the wall entirely, and he had to scramble and scrape to keep from tipping off the other side. But that _crack_ as lead pipe met pervert head made it all better.

Kamoshida stumbled off the edge, and Akira completely lost composure. It must’ve been just the surprise that suddenly, they were on the offensive and it _worked_ , “Skull, that was amazing!”

“Y’know, all in a day’s work!” Ryuji grinned, flashing a victory sign. Akira chuckled, beaming up at him. Then something warm and wet wrapped itself around Ryuji’s neck and tugged him back down to the ground.

Ryuji’s back spasmed on the landing. He was greeted to a familiar sight: Kamoshida, only a little worse for wear from his own fall, glowering down at him. The absurdity of his still-too-long tongue swinging back and forth did nothing to kill the menace in those eyes.

Honestly, it had been dumb to think that he’d get a reprieve. Careless. Not insurmountable. Ryuji started to pull himself back to his feet, crying out when Kamoshida slammed a foot into his chest.

No. They were _here_ again.

They _couldn’t_ be here again!

Ryuji was _strong_ now!!!

He didn’t feel like it. Kamoshida leaned down, and a second, grotesque voice spoke with him as he whispered, “It really kills me, every time I have to bow and scrape for that pompous idiot.”

Somewhere just above the two of them, Captain Kidd sailed into view. He took aim. Kamoshida paid him no mind: golden eyes flashed, and he grinned, “But then I remember that doing that’s what puts me above garbage like _you_.”

His foot came down on Ryuji’s face just as Kidd fired. There was black.

* * *

Ryuji wasn’t sure how long he swam in that darkness, only that for a horrifying second, he suspected he might’ve died. But empty black gave way to the smokey skies of the Metaverse. His head was still swimming, numb to the world around him.

Gradually, he became more and more aware. Kamoshida was gone. But Akira was there - and his hands were on his chest. They had a green glow to them.

Actually, for that matter, so did Ryuji.

And wait, wasn’t that the tiny little fairy they kept running into over Akira’s shoulder?

It felt too early for questions: like he’d just slept a thousand years and not shaken off the grogginess yet. It was fading, slowly. So was the pain, once that started registering again.

He groaned, “The fuck is-”

“Oh thank god, you’re alive,” Akira breathed.

“Why’re you…?”

“I…” he looked over his shoulder at the fairy, “After Kamoshida ducked out, I… I wanted to save you. And so this one popped out.”

That made enough sense. Less so as consciousness and sense returned, but for now it might’ve been enough of an explanation. Ryuji forced a smile, “Guess it’s a good thing we picked her up. Got ourselves a new shadow team mate.”

Akira hesitated, “I think… that she might actually be another persona.” The creature flitted from one side of his head to the other, nodding merrily, “Like… this is a part of me, too.”

“What?” Ryuji sat up suddenly, and Akira fell back on his ass to keep their heads from smacking together, “What, you just get _two_?”

He shrugged, “I’m as lost as you, man.”

Two personas. A fast pass to citizenship straight from the real Clovis. What _didn’t_ this guy get?

Granted, if he didn’t get them, where would that leave Ryuji? Dead, probably - or just up shit’s creek, if it meant he never got the chance to come into the Metaverse. Ryuji cracked his neck. The throbbing in his head was almost completely gone, “I guess I shouldn’t complain - I mean, you did bring me back to life or whatever.”

“I…” Akira paused, adjusting to sit back against a wall, “I don’t think you were _dead_ dead. I mean, look at her.” The pixie sparkled back into being where Akira pointed, twirling and then vanishing again, “I don’t exactly think _she_ has power over life and death.”

“Still though, thanks,” Ryuji murmured.

“No worries. Thank _you_.”

The laugh was out before Ryuji could stop it, and it was too bitter to ever play off. So whatever: why _not_ unload? “For _what_? For running headlong into _every_ problem we come up against? For playing around in here so much, I practically forget what we’re even tryin’ to _do_?” He smacked his fist into the ground. It sent a jolt his arm: once again he’d pay for not thinking before he lashed out, “… all the power Captain Kidd has, and this _still_ happens.”

“The only reason it’s me saving you and not vice versa is because _you_ were the one on the wall,” Akira said gently - like he was trying to calm an angry child! Before Ryuji could protest, he held up a hand, “You’re right: every time we run into a problem, you’re the first of us to try to cut through. But you don’t have to apologize for wanting to make a difference. Not to me.”

Ryuji didn’t know what to say to that. It was… well, _shit_ , it was a little embarrassing. He looked at his feet, “I just… like, I’ve never been able to… all this _shit_ happens around me, and I could never _do_ anything because…” he couldn’t find the right words.

But he realized he didn’t need to. Akira would finish for him, “… and now you _can_ , and so you want to do _everything_.”

“… yeah.”

When he mustered the courage to look up, there was no judgement in Akira’s eyes. And if he stopped and thought about it for even a moment, why would there be? “Me too.”

* * *

**August 10, 2017 A.T.B. - Ann**

Kamoshida’s palace was covered in what he must’ve thought passed for art. Maybe the painted faces ball had done that: the real Ashford had gotten a bunch of statues and paintings dancing in his head, and his warped perception of the world made them all about _him_.

When Ann brought up that possibility, Morgana shrugged, “I mean, _maybe_.” Ann idly wished he would just say so when he thought she was wrong, “I dunno that it’d be that different on other days though - all the statues are a good way to show what he values, if that makes sense.”

It did, but if that was true, the only things Kamoshida seemed to value were himself and sex.

The first time Ann saw a pair of columns shaped like arched backs, it had almost been funny. Headless, they were turned coquettishly away from the viewer. Their eyes were inevitably drawn to the bright red splash of what could generously and dishonestly be called gym shorts. The curve was such that, if for some reason she’d wanted to, Ann could probably have climbed up onto the statue’s presented ass. It was just so over the top: like the halls were literally held up by Kamoshida’s fantasies.

But the further in they went, the more she noticed that it really was just _everywhere_. Sometimes, it was subtle: every doorway, every window had frames that seemed to suggest spread legs. The walls were carved into images of girls thrusting out their hips, their chests. They seemed to _writhe_ as you looked away, and Ann could swear she’d heard them giggle.

She hadn’t looked close enough to see if any two of the wall girls looked alike. Were they just decorations, symbolic only of Kamoshida’s filthy mind, or cognitions of people she knew? She’d already seen what she looked like in this palace. Maybe the walls commemorated past _victories_.

That felt impossible. There were just too many.

Maybe the worst was the discovery that she could blend in with the fantasies.

In a bare patch of hallway, they’d heard a pair of guards ahead of them, grousing how, “King Kamoshida has all the luck.”

There was a line of shining stained glass windows to their right, wall girls and paintings of Kamoshida to their left. No doors, and for once nothing to hide behind or under. The closest thing was the carpet, but the guards would _probably_ notice an Ann-shaped lump sticking out.

So she improvised.

“Let’s double ba—!!!” Morgana cut off into a yelp as Ann tucked him headfirst under her arm.

In hindsight, his plan was actually probably the better one, but she was committed now. A photoshoot had popped into her head: her bent over - just enough to be a _little_ suggestive, but by no means obscene. She’d had an alluring wink on her face, a victory sign in her hand. It had been a beach ball under her arm in the shoot, but Morgana would do in a pinch. His back paws clawed at her, and she hissed, “Mona, stop moving.”

He did, just in time for the guards to round the corner. Ann tried to relax without breathing. Worst case scenario, it wasn’t like these two would be a match for Carmen.

One of them paused just in front of the two of them, waddling up to Ann. She didn’t blink, even as she felt its empty eyes over her body. It said, “See? Look at that - King Kamoshida gets to _hit that_!”

Ann’s teeth gritted. She hoped it didn’t see.

“It really isn’t fair,” the other agreed, “C’mon. Let’s sweep the rest of the halls.”

The first took a moment to stare at her. How could it _still_ be leering when it barely had a face of its own? They locked eyes, and that probably should’ve been the end of things, because it _should’ve_ been able to see that she was alive in that moment.

But there it went, calling out to the other, “What do you think’s with the cat motif?”

“Dude, you ever seen a sexy catgirl? Mee-ow!”

They laughed, which Ann hadn’t known they could do, and one idly said, “Man, I’ll miss Ann- _chan_ when the next model finally comes in.”

Ann tensed. She’d gotten enough reminders of what Kamoshida saw her as. She should’ve been inoculated against them by now. She still tensed. For _him_ , this was all a cycle. If they failed… maybe she’d never have to be his _queen_. But if she didn’t, someone else would suffer for it.

When she was sure the shadows were gone, Ann set Morgana down. She tried to look anywhere but at Kamoshida’s monuments to himself and his depravity - which meant looking back they way they’d come. Morgana, thankfully, could read the room enough not to object to her plan. A numb part of her brain had to admit that if he _did_ , he’d be right to.

But instead, he looked gravely up at her, asking, “Panther, do you want to detour and take those two out?”

A part of her really did. Another, more sensible part, knew there was no point. That was the part she had to listen to, so she shook her head, halfhearted playfulness in her voice, “What, wanna take some petty vengeance? That doesn’t sound like a phantom thief, Mona.”

Somehow, when Morgana blushed, it showed up on his mask. The Metaverse had sure given him a weird set of rules. He crossed his arms, turning up his nose, “On… on the contrary! A true gentleman thief would _never_ let a lady be so impugned!”

Ann laughed. It was easy to be suspicious of chivalry, but Morgana seemed to really believe what he was saying. So earnest. So adorable. She scratched behind one of his ears, and he let out a surprised gasp, followed by a very catlike purr, “Well aren’t you the knight in shining armor.” His mask felt like fur. Ann wondered how she could feel that through her gloves. Withdrawing her hand, she said, “But I need master thief Mona right now, okay?”

One of his ears twitched, and he took a deep breath. Like he was actually flipping a switch. His eyes were as serious as a cartoon cat’s could be when he opened them, “You’re right, Panther. Dealing with them is a waste of time: we press on.”

And so they did, Morgana tearing ahead of her. If his footfalls weren’t so quiet, Ann might’ve been worried he was going to give them away. But he could stop so short and so still, and he did so at the slightest sound - even the things that Ann missed.

The shadows never stood a chance. When Morgana was focusing, he could effortlessly guide them to exactly the right spot to stay out of sight. From there, they either waited for the guards to pass, or dealt with them with a few well placed blows. Following Morgana’s lead, Ann barely had to think about the infiltration - or her surroundings. If she just turned off her brain for a little while, the steps became automatic, easy.

Somehow, it wasn’t satisfying.

They were all just so weak. What was the point of even planning these intricate pathways around them? Ann was armed to the teeth. Her whip. The machine gun she’d gotten for the team. _Carmen_.

Ann was the most terrifying thing in the palace, why was she still skulking in shadows and cowering at the impotent boasts Kamoshida covered the walls with?

Morgana halted again, holding up a paw, “Just one down the end of that hallway. If we rush him, we should be able to-” Ann briskly stepped past him and tore her mask off. Carmen blazed to life beside her, calling a wave of fire that swept down the hall. She saw the carpet turn to ash, heard some glass cases and windows popping in the heat but couldn’t see through the inferno to where the supposed shadow did the same. It wasn’t there when the flames died down.

Ann took in a deep breath: the smell of soot on the air was intoxicating. She let it back out through her nose. That was better.

And she already knew she’d get chewed out for it. Morgana stammered, “Lady… Panther! What was… what was…!?”

“That,” she explained, “Was me clearing a path.” She took a couple steps down the hall, admiring her handiwork. Some of the tattered, smoldering remains of banners with Kamoshida’s face had survived. So had the wall girls, though they now had a healthy blanket of ash. Everything else she’d burned away.

Morgana followed after her: he was markedly less impressed than she was, “What if someone, y’know, _noticed_ that!?”

“Then they would’ve been next,” Ann said. She put a hand on her hip, grinning, “The shadows here are a joke: that one didn’t even get a chance to cry out.”

“C’mon - don’t start thinking you’re untouchable _now_ ,” Morgana said testily. There was a part of Ann that was just relieved he was finally at least on the _cusp_ of treating her like he did the rest of the team, “We’ve seen how _that_ goes.”

Ann knew in her head that he was right. That did nothing to stop her brow from furrowing under her mask, “You ever think it might not be such a bad thing if I _did_ think I was _untouchable_?!”

Morgana started to snap back, but then realization struck and he stiffened. Ann set her jaw, looking at him expectantly. He always had an answer for everything, she couldn’t wait for this one. At least it was meek enough, “Panther… that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what _I_ meant,” she countered. She clenched and unclenched a fist. If it would just let out some of this frustration, maybe she’d _actually_ be able to be an effective teammate again. There was no reason to be taking it out on Morgana. Trying to keep her voice level, she said, “Everywhere we go, everything we see in here is another reminder of what he’s done, and what he _wants_ to do, and that he thinks he can just get away with it.”

Morgana nodded, taking a moment to process that. He approached cautiously, thankfully thinking better of a reassuring touch, “But he _won’t._ That’s why we’re here.”

Ann knew that: she’d been telling herself that for the better part of a week now. It wasn’t enough this time. They would stop him. Great. Better than great: wonderful - it would genuinely make her corner of the world a better place to live for more people than even knew it.

But when was that feeling of power she’d had when she awoke _finally_ going to stick? Next to her, Kamoshida was an insect. When was Ann going to internalize that she was the one who could crush _him_ now?

At the very least, she’d have liked to be able to convince Morgana she was alright. She must’ve looked like an idiot - still afraid, even with all her strength. If she could just plaster on a fake smile and say ‘good talk, I’m feeling better!’ it would be fine. Just focus on the task at hand: toe the line and pretend what she saw didn’t make her sick to her stomach.

Y’know, like she had before.

“Let’s ditch the inside,” Morgana said suddenly.

That might’ve been appealing, but Ann still protested, “Mona, we don’t have to do that just because I’m-”

He cut her off before she had to think about how she was going to end that thought, “It’s got nothing to do with you.” That was a bold faced lie, but he told it well, “I feel like we’re running in circles here. I _thought_ we’d be able to find a way over into another building - or at least something worth snagging.” Morgana sighed dramatically, “No luck, though. So let’s plot a course for the tower.”

Ann crossed her arms, looking over her shoulder at a scorched wall girl. Morgana made it make sense to turn away and press on. So it shouldn’t have felt like running away again.

He flashed a grin - he must’ve been just as eager to go back to business as usual, “Besides. If we dawdle any longer, the boys are gonna beat us there. You really want _Skull_ to get ahead of us?”

Despite herself, Ann snorted. Really? Now? When Ryuji wasn’t even here to punch back? Some gentleman.

Or maybe he really _was_ one. He’d offered her the perfect chance to retreat into normalcy until she was ready break down yet again. Ann would take it gladly, “ _Joker’s_ the one who’d gloat y’know.”

“Please. I know how to handle Joker!” Morgana wobbled up to one of the windows Ann’s flare had broken, hefting himself up to look this way and that outside. The bravado in his voice was maybe a little too forced - a bit too obviously for her benefit, “In fact, I know how to handle _both_ of them! You just have to establish dominance, Panther, and you can keep either of them under your thu-!” He gasped suddenly in surprise, though Ann couldn’t for the life of her tell why.

Once Ann turned to look, she could: someone Morgana _didn’t_ know how to handle.

“Ann- _chan_?” the cognitive Shirley cocked her head to the side, a wide eyed, innocent puppy, “I figured you’d be with King Kamoshida.”

How had she managed to sneak up on them? Why was she even _here_?

It hadn’t even occurred to Ann that she might run into Kamoshida’s cognitions of her friends. Or that she’d let her guard down enough that one might sneak up on them.

Which raised the question: what exactly were they going to do about her. Ann gulped, “Uh…”

The cognitive Shirley let out a vapid little giggle, “Don’t tell me you got lost, Ann- _chan_!” She gasped, leaning in to whisper in Ann’s ear, “Or are you just making him wait for it?”

Ugh. Ann grimaced, nodding meekly. She said, “Uh…” again, but at least this time she followed it up with, “You got it, Shirley- _chan_!”

“They called each other sisters,” Morgana hissed.

“ _Sister_ Shirley!” Ann yelped. Yeah. That was convincing.

There was _no way_ she could keep up a charade of being the cognitive Ann for long - her pride was too great, never mind that she couldn’t _dream_ of acting like her. All the things she’d have to drape herself over? Her spine would break.

No one with half a brain would buy it.

But Kamoshida’s vision of a woman would. ‘Shirley’ tittered into her hand, “That’s our Ann- _chan_!” Ann laughed nervously. Sure was, “But…” ‘Shirley’ reached out, stroking Ann’s cheek. It was honestly too surprising to properly react to. She idly touched Ann’s lower lip with a thumb, smiling with a look that _did not_ belong on innocent little Shirley’s face, “Just make sure you give him what he wants soon. Keep him waiting too long, and you’ll just drive him to another woman…”

Was that a threat, or genuine advice? Or like, roundabout seduction? It could honestly go any which way. Or did it mean…

Ann grabbed ‘Shirley’s’ wrist - she squealed in surprise. Looking into her eyes, Ann tried to see past the distortion to the girl this nun was supposed to represent. She couldn’t find her - but even the cognition should have been able to answer her, “Shirley, has he _ever_ touched you?”

The real Shirley had never shown any sign that anything like that had ever gone on. None that Ann had seen - but then, _Ann_ had never shown a sign that _Shirley_ had seen either, and here she was. Kamoshida _should_ have left her be - for his own safety if nothing else. A half-Eleven foreigner was an easier mark than a rich Britannian girl. Still.

‘Shirley’ shrank demurely, biting the knuckles of her free hand, “Oh, Ann- _chan_ … I’m sorry!” She stepped back, bowing more deeply than the real Shirley would ever think to, “He saved me from falling, but I swear, it wasn’t like that!” She righted herself, winking as she made a heart with her hands, “I’d never mack on my Ann- _chan_ ’s man!”

Ann breathed a sigh of relief. Good. Once was more than enough.

“Ann- _chan_!” Morgana said, his eyes occasionally flicking between her and the cognition, “We should _really_ get going.”

He didn’t wait for her, somersaulting into the air, catching an overhanging tile to flip up onto the roof. Ann wondered when they’d found their way to a top floor.

‘Shirley’ stepped into her a little, staring doe-eyed up at her, “You’re going up on the roof? Why?”

Ann thought about just breaking cover. Just laying into the cognition, letting it - her - know what she thought of her _master’s_ castle and why she was _really_ there. Would Kamoshida even have imagined her as intelligent enough to alert the guards?

This time, it was better to be safe. She winked, trying to remember how the cognitive her had flounced so she could put that into her walk, “Because I’m _Ann_ -chan. I can go where I want.”

If the real Shirley could only have seen her starstruck face. Ann tipped herself back through the window, catching Morgana’s outstretched paws. From there, she kicked off the outside wall the get up onto the roof.

Morgana shook his head, “We got lucky there - good improvisation, Panther.”

Ann shrugged. The only thing _good_ about all that was confirmation that she’d only let down _one_ of her closest friends. She tried to think about the path from the rooftop to elsewhere. A blocky stone structure that made her think of Notre Dame stood close enough that a few wooden boards had been set up between it and the one they stood on. 

Some shadows back and forth on the rooftops, too. Maybe it’d be easier to keep track of them out here - though they’d also have to worry about someone above or under them catching sight of them. That shouldn’t have been too much of a problem: it was dark enough that all of Kamoshida’s self-aggrandizing art could only take the form of vague lumps of shadow. The tower gave off its own gloomy light, and the domed temple-looking building sparkled, but Kamoshida hadn’t figured out a way to make them as unsettling as their interiors.

That was, until a beam of bright blue light tore through the roof of the temple. It soared higher and higher, lighting up the empty night sky. Cutting through the mist, it swirled in place, radiating power.

For a few moments, Ann and Morgana could only stare at it. The beam pulsed, a warning to anyone who dared come too close. It shone bright, yet didn’t seem to illuminate anything. Surely it should’ve lit the two of them up like a spotlight?

“What… do you think that is?” Ann asked, mesmerized, knowing she wouldn’t get an answer.

Because how could Morgana know? “Maybe… Skull and Joker did that?”

Ann looked at him. He was dead serious - did he mean that they, like, _made_ that, or that someone had shot it at them? Either way, how exactly?

Worse, if _Kamoshida_ had done that, how the hell were mere mortals like them expected to beat him?

Ann didn’t have long to worry about the strange light: soon, the temple offered more to freak out about. The ground shook, and what could only be described as an angel flew from the crumbling mass of the temple. It hovered in the air, resplendent and magnificent, and just as the initial pillar of light began to dissipate, it held out a hand and fired off another one. It seared through the night sky - somehow, Ann felt the heat of it on her face, even from so far away.

Morgana gaped, sputtered, “Wh-What did those idiots _do_!?”

Hopefully, whatever it was wasn’t managing to get themselves killed. The thought came unbidden, and refused to leave once it arose. Ann swallowed spit, “We should get going.”

As if to prove her point, the angel flapped its many wings, turning slowly toward them. It paused. As it raised its hand again, Ann’s heart stopped, “Oh, _fuck_!!!”

They were moving before it fired. That was all that saved them: feeling the heat of the previous beam from a distance must’ve been an illusion born of her imagination, but _this_ was real. In a perfect world, Ann and Morgana would have made it to the makeshift bridge before they had to jump. But in a perfect world, God wouldn’t have decided that they needed to die _right now_ or have sent an avenging angel to do the deed.

Ann knew there wasn’t going to be ground under her feet when she jumped, but her heart still sank as her momentum stopped carrying her forward. Nowhere near close enough to the other building. She could only watch as the edge rose - slowly at first, and then all at once - out of sight, and she was falling.

She called on Carmen. Fire spouted, almost teasingly, below her. Nope. No luck. Her whip? Yeah, that’d work! She reached for it - it was so much harder to do this in midair than it looked in movies. Still, Ann managed it, tried not to think about her complete, utter lack of real world experience with whips. So she had no idea how she’d grapple onto something: this was the Metaverse!

She let fly, and her reasoning proved sound. Abruptly, her fall stopped in midair - Ann cried out as it tried to pull her arm out of its socket. The pain faded faster than it would in the real world. And she was alive, which was the real victory here.

There was a weight, like something was beckoning her to just let go, let gravity run its course. Foolishly, Ann looked down. Morgana clung to the tail of her catsuit, curled in on himself, eyes closed.

Ann called out, “Mor- Mona! Still alive?”

Later, she’d pretend she hadn’t noticed the whimpers he let out before replying, “I think so… wait… yeah. Still here. You alright, Panther?”

“Oh, you know…” Ann said. She tried tugging on her whip - maybe it had some kind of magical zip line feature! That’d be a nice surprise, “Just hanging around.”

Morgana groaned, “You know you’re as bad as Joker?”

“Joker’s pretty good,” Ann said. The wall wasn’t far: they could hop over and figure out their next move from there. The zip line seemed to be a no go, “Mona, do you think you can get over onto the wall?”

There was a pause as he judged the distance. Worry in his voice, Morgana said, “Probably.” He looked up at her, eyes wide with nerves, “Do you mind if I swing? I know that it might be a little weird, given the circumstances.”

Ann almost laughed. Such a gentleman, but now wasn’t the time, “You’re fine, Mona.” He made a grateful noise, and kicked back, then forth, then back again. It probably looked just a little ridiculous, if you happened to be flying by. All it _felt_ like, thankfully, was like an extra ball of weight was swinging back and forth below her. Ann tried to keep her eyes on the wall. Now was _definitely_ not the time to start looking down.

Morgana leapt, and Ann held her breath, just in case. There was nothing to worry about, of course. He’d made longer jumps than that without her batting her eyes. But it was different several stories above ground.

And by Morgana’s expectant look back at her, now it was her turn.

She had so many advantages. Her whip was a longer vine to swing on than her tail. Her limbs were longer too. She actually had _fingers_ , so if she somehow _didn’t_ make it, she’d at least probably catch a ledge or something.

Ah, but _probably_ was such a dubious relief.

There was nothing for it but to put on a brave face. Grunting inelegantly, Ann pulled her legs up as high as they would go. It wasn’t as high as would’ve been ideal: the Metaverse always conspired to make her regret skipped gym classes. She pumped back anyway, rocking back and forth until it was time to let go.

Ann let herself swing one more time before she jumped, and then she was flying again. It was over before she even registered there was no ground under her, and she clung to the wall for dear life. The hard part, the part she’d have to do all at once or not at all, was over. They could climb back up as slow as they wanted.

The climb was slow going, but at least Carmen was helping with this part. She must’ve been: Ann’s arms never got tired, and her hands seemed to find the next handhold of themselves.

They returned at last to solid ground, and once she’d pulled herself up, Ann rolled over on her back in relief. Morgana bent over, breathing heavily, which Ann was sure was mostly for show, “Gonna kill them…”

“For real,” she laughed. Closing her eyes for a moment, she tensed at an unbidden thought, “I hope they’re not waiting for us to come save them - I totally missed if they fired off the signal.”

“Whatever,” Morgana grumbled, righting himself, “They’re on their own if they’re gonna spring stuff like _that_ on us without warning. I swear, it’s one thing after another…”

Ann stretched, her catsuit making a leathery groan against the ground, then sat up. They’d have to get moving: the stretch of roof they’d found themselves on was mostly bare, except for a few hunched gargoyles surrounding the edges. If anyone (say, an angel with a death ray) flew over, Ann and Morgana would be sitting ducks.

The building had two towers built into it, the other one looking identical to the one they were on, and then a lower roof that sloped and curved. It looked like they’d be able to drop down from one spit of wall to another until they were on that part. They could decide from there if they’d bother with the other tower, or just try to get back onto the ground.

Their goal, the veined tower, still pulsed off in the distance. Now at least they could see that it was indeed connected to the structure they were on: a thick wall grew out of the back of the building, curving around until it reached another blocky keep. It seemed like a straight shot, and then everything was all towers and tendrils.

Ann glanced at Morgana: by the arrogant smirk forming on his face, he was putting together a similar plan. He chuckled, “Looks like we’re gonna beat them there after all. Care to take the lead, Panther?”

“On it,” she said, crouching down by the nearest gargoyle. She swung her legs over the edge, above something she thought she’d be able to safely land on - just like the path forward she’d already seen.

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something, and did a double take. The stone features beside her were sharp, and the half-lidded, disinterested eyes were familiar, even in monochrome shadow. Ann almost laughed, murmuring, “Should’ve known you’d be a gargoyle, Lulu.”

“Huh?” Morgana wobbled over to her, an ear twitching, “What’re you whispering?”

“Oh!” Ann gave him a reassuring smile, knocking lightly on Lelouch’s head, “I just recognized this statue, that’s all. A guy from school.”

Hopping over her legs, Morgana inspected the statue. The way his head rested on his knuckles, it almost looked like Lelouch was doing the same to the cat. Morgana perked up, “Oh yeah - he and Joker sit together in a bunch of classes, don’t they?”

“He’s supposed to be on the student council, too.” Ann rolled her eyes, “I mean, when he shows up.”

Morgana looked at the dozens of other gargoyles lining the building, “I’m surprised that these’re even cognitions. But I guess not everyone at the academy can be down in the dungeon…”

“Or eye candy,” Ann added. Now that she was looking for it, the gargoyles really were a lot more human than she’d expected. Most of them, she noticed, covered their eyes or ears. It didn’t take a genius to think of what _that_ might mean. Even Lelouch’s ‘Thinker’ pose put his hand over his mouth. Ann let out an irritated breath, “God. It’s _perfect_ for him.”

“What do you mean?”

She waved off the question: there was no point getting worked up over this. But then instead of putting Lelouch behind her and moving on, she sat there. And it built up in her. And finally she spat, “He’s just so… I dunno. Like he thinks he’s better than people.” Ann gestured to Lelouch without looking back at him, “And here he is. Above it all.”

It shouldn’t have pissed her off so much. Lelouch wasn’t the _only_ one, there were tons of statues on this roof and no doubt across the buildings of the palace. Each one of them was someone in the real world: another card in Kamoshida’s castle. His abuse could only run rampant as long as people like _them_ stayed blind.

All of them, if they would only _look_ , could’ve seen what the real Kamoshida was. If they just cared enough about _other people_ , maybe they’d be able to see. But they couldn’t: and so what better were they than statues?

But Lelouch was different: he _could_ see that something was wrong. _So much_ was wrong. But he’d never speak out. Lelouch would forever sit on a wall and silently judge all the little people struggling through their lives below him.

Just like Ann had.

And there was _Morgana_ looking at her like she was going to blow up again. Which almost made her want to. Kamoshida had planted himself in this school, and he’d turned every student in it into his collaborator. Why wasn’t Ann allowed to get angry at that?

Carefully, Morgana put a paw on her back. Ann let it stay, glaring at Lelouch’s empty stone eyes. She breathed, muttering, “ _I_ should be up here.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Morgana said firmly, “Panther, you’re a victim in all of this too.”

“Not as much as Shiho.” The admission was obvious, and it still hurt a little to make. Ann pulled up her knees, hugged them to herself, “I should’ve _known_ something was wrong. I should’ve been able to…” she shook her head. There was _nothing_ she could’ve done. And she knew that. And she’d known that for so long, but every time she was faced with it again it hit just as hard, “Sometimes it feels like… like I’m the only one of my friends - my _Britannian_ friends - who sees a monster. Everyone else thinks that it’s completely normal, that everything’s fine, but _I_ can see that it _eats_ people. But that’s all I can do.”

Morgana sat beside her, nodding pensively. He gazed out at the distant tower - he probably couldn’t wait for her meltdown to be over so they could get back to it. For all that, he was still patient with her, “I don’t know a lot about Britannia, Panther. Or a lot of things about being properly human - I just can’t remember a lot of them.” Morgana’s ear twitched again. It must’ve bothered him to think of what he’d lost, “But I _do_ know that you can’t beat yourself up about this forever. Maybe you didn’t know enough about what was going on. Maybe you _did_ know, but you couldn’t do anything about it. But that’s just it, you _couldn’t_. Now you _can_.”

Ann sighed, “Mona, I’ve been telling myself that over and over again. It _doesn’t help_.”

“Now you _can_ ,” he said again, more forcefully, “So now you _have to_. You shouldn’t feel guilty about what happened in the past. But if you get cold feet now… if you can’t see it through, you're going to regret it.”

Something in Ann’s chest burned - _that_ was so near the heart of the matter, yet so horribly, abysmally far, “I’m _not_ backing down, Mona. Never. So you don’t have to worry about-”

“But you’re scared,” he said simply. She wanted to push him off the roof. That must’ve shown on her face, Morgana gulped. But he still held her gaze, “Right?”

Saying it would make it real. But even _without_ saying it, it still was. Wasn’t it better not to pretend it wasn’t there? “Yeah.”

“That’s _okay_ ,” Morgana said. He gestured as broadly as he could to their view, “This is a palace built out of Kamoshida’s distorted desires - so basically, the fact that he wants to…” he faltered on actually saying it. A vindictive part of Ann, terrified at allowing herself to be vulnerable, wanted to provide it. She was merciful, “It’s… foundational to this place. It’s everywhere. Who _wouldn’t_ be scared?”

She sighed, “I dunno… It just— it just feels like,” she struggled to put into words how her terror and anger and disgust couldn’t possibly even match the horrors Shiho had gone through, “Like I shouldn’t be— like if I let myself be even a little scared of him _here_ , it’s just gonna make him more powerful.”

Morgana considered that. By the way he hemmed and hawed, he didn’t know one way or another if _that_ was a justified worry. “Well,” his voice trilled cheekily, “I guess you can just imagine him in his underwear?” he jumped up animatedly, “He’s this all-powerful, sex-god king and he chooses _that_ getup? Like, what even is that?!”

It completely blindsided Ann: she couldn’t keep herself from laughing. Which of course just encouraged Morgana further. “I mean seriously— tighty-whiteys?! And a cape?” Tears sprung to Ann’s eyes, hiccups of laughter bubbling out of her mouth. “How dangerous can he be?”

Ann knew exactly how dangerous he could be, but she appreciated Morgana’s effort to make her feel better. And it was true: the image of what she was really up against was so much less imposing than the palace made him out to be.

“You’re right,” she said with a last gasp of laughter. “Thanks Mona.”

He bowed. “I live to serve. Now,” he straightened, “if we’re gonna beat those idiots, we should probably hurry.”

Ann stood with a nod and dusted herself off. She threw the Lelouch gargoyle one last glare before following Morgana. It could stay here and scoff at the world: _she_ was going to go change it.

Once they got to the lower roof, the two only took a couple paces before the sounds of wind whipping stopped them in their tracks. Morgana tensed, “If that’s the angel, get ready to-”

Before he could say ‘run’ or ‘hide,’ three white streaks began to whip around them. They were pretty clearly not the angel: for one thing, they giggled too much. For another, they were spending too much time playing with their food: the angel had sentenced them to death so much as seeing them up close.

These three each kept breaking their lightning-fast formation to try and fake out the two of them. They’d lunge like they were going to attack, almost giving Ann a look at their faces, but they’d never actually do it.

Frankly, it was a little obnoxious. The third time it happened, Ann sighed, whipping the ground in front of her as a warning.

The three gasped, leaping back into formation. Finally, Ann got a chance to see them.

They were, because this was Kamoshida’s castle, a bunch of teen girls in black bikinis a size too small. They each hard a number painted - or maybe tattooed or branded - on a breast. Ann hoped those were squad numbers, not some kind of ranking, but who could say? These were apparently One, Four, and Eight.

They also, in case Ann had any doubt about who these were supposed to be, all had volleyballs for heads. Eight’s was a little caved in on itself.

Four and One stopped back to back, each holding their hands like pistols. Eight was… maybe vogueing? One hand fanned up over her face, the other stretched out to the side.

Morgana and Ann looked at one another. Morgana said, “… maybe they’re friendly?”

They were not. “Halt, intruders!” Eight called out. That was impressive for having no mouth, but its voice was nails on a chalkboard: nasal did _not_ translate through cognitive distortion well. It brought up its leg like some kind of kung fu action star, making finger guns at Ann and Morgana, “In the name of King Kamoshida, I’ll punish you!”

Ann did her best not to laugh. The Ashford volleyball team was clearly trying its hardest. But they _would_ run into something like this the very second she admitted to being even a _little_ afraid of _anything_ the palace had to throw at them.

Morgana took a moment to consider this strange new development. A little awkwardly, he asked, “Do… uh… do you want me to…?”

“I’ve got this,” Ann said, stepping forward. She pulled at the based of her whip, “So if any of you wanna back off now, I won’t hold it against you.” Then she let fly with another warning crack, relishing in the sound of it, and in how the cognitions flinched away from her.

That didn’t, of course, stop them from coming at her. Which had been expected: Carmen blazed to life right in their path, forcing them to adjust course. But it was already too late: if they got caught by Ann once, they weren’t going anywhere except where she wanted them.

It was almost a joke. _This_ was the easy part. When the flames danced, she was in control. Keeping them burning after the battle - that would be Ann’s struggle.

She owed it to everyone to overcome it: most of all herself. 

* * *

**August 10, 2017 A.T.B. - Joker**

Say what you would about Skull, he _loved_ to kick in a door.

Sticking to the shadows had served the two of them well back out in the courtyard, but now they’d reached the base of the tower Mona had said the treasure would be in. It was packed with guards, and some of the toughest ones that Joker’d dealt with. The Pixies and demonic sprites from the entrance hall were almost completely absent now: here, everything was angels and knights on horseback. They bumbled less than the earlier foes had: Kamoshida’s best and brightest were guarding this tower.

Which only meant that they were getting close. After all, it wasn’t like they had a real answer for Skull busting the door open and the two of them lighting up the room. _Maybe_ they’d get a chance to blink before Captain Kidd electrified them. They wouldn’t get another before Arsène tore them apart.

They’d quickly found a stairway once they went in, and it was just good business to check every door. Most of what they found were dead ends - sometimes _guarded_ dead ends, which Joker knew he shouldn’t be excited about, but who cared what people thought he _should_ be excited about? It wasn’t _just_ play: Joker was keeping a mental map of the tower. When they went for the treasure, if they had to go in from the bottom, they could skip eight floors worth of angry shadows.

Nine: they’d gone up another floor, and look at that: another door. Skull grinned, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet, “Alright! So what do I yell this time?”

Joker grinned, crossing his arms, “Maybe we start playing with their heads - something like ‘Hail Britannia, bitch?’”

“Nah, man, fuck that,” Skull said. Which, like, fair, “If anything we’ve been gettin’ too hoity-toity about these things. Gotta get back to basics, somethin’ quick and punchy….” He lit up, suddenly getting it. Without warning, he rushed the door, smashing foot first through it. True to his word, Skull _was_ succinct, “Surprise, motherfuckas!”

Joker vaulted over him, his hand going to the pistol in his coat in time to draw it as he ducked and rolled. It wasn’t their best entrance: Joker still thought they could’ve messed with the enemy a little bit more.

As it was, Panther and Mona were plenty thrown. Carmen and Zorro loomed over them, summoned by reflex, only to dissipate a moment later. Panther shouted, “Guys, what the _fuck_!?”

An odd part of Joker was almost disappointed. He lowered his gun, smiling cheekily. A cool breeze blew through his hair, “Evening all.”

“Have you been doing _that_ the whole time!?” Mona screamed. Which, really, wasn’t much better when it came to laying low, “What happened to keeping a low profile!?”

“Not the _whole_ time,” Joker said.

“Yeah, mostly just since getting here…” Skull agreed, gesturing up to the tower. Up close, you could really see the veins throbbing around the upper floors getting thicker, even as the structure itself got thinner.

Panther glared at Skull, “Well I hope you two have been having _fun_.”

He sputtered, clearly not having an answer to that one. Joker did, so he provided it, nonchalantly wiping off his gun on his pants before tucking it back into his coat, “I mean, yeah, we have been.” Panther turned that glare on him, but he was ready to weather that, “Turns out that fighting bad guys feels good. Who knew?”

Skull gave him a thankful pair of thumbs up. Which almost offset Panther trying to set him on fire with her eyes, but not quite. She growled, “Did you two set the _angel_ on us?”

Shit. Joker had thought something was up when Clovis started firing off in what looked like random directions. He’d hoped that maybe Kamoshida had a cognition about Britannia doing uselessly violent things now and again, but no such luck, “I mean… not deliberately.”

“Me and Mona almost _died_ , Joker!”

He wasn’t sure what to say about that. After all, he and Skull had _loved_ getting shot at.

Joker wasn’t ready to say that kind of thing to her. Not with her in his face, at any rate. Luckily, Skull had not self preservation instinct, “Like, we didn’t _mean_ to set him off, A-!” He stammered over Panther’s real world name for only a moment. Truly, he was learning, “Seriously. We were bein’ good - like hidin’ and everthing, and like…!”

Damn him, he passed it off to Joker. He hoped he hadn’t paled too much under the spotlight, “Seriously, we were dead quiet. Clovis just _decided_ he knew we were there.”

“Why were you ‘there’ at all!?” Mona jabbed.

“We were checking out the temple! C’mon, doesn’t it look like the treasure could-” Joker said, gesturing off towards what he saw was now a pile of rubble. The spires may have remained, but the dome didn’t. It didn’t even glow anymore, “I mean, not _now_ , but…”

“Wait. Wait, hold on,” Panther at least didn’t sound angry anymore. It was exciting: escaping one unstoppable force of hatred and rage had been enough for one day, “ _Clovis_?! That angel thing was supposed to be _Prince Clovis_?”

Joker glanced up at the sky. It, mercifully, was still empty - it still felt like saying his name might summon the prince, “Yeah, it was crazy.”

Mona’s brow furrowed, “What, uh… what’s a Prince Clovis?”

They all looked at him. Skull rubbed at the back of his head, letting out an incredulous, “Dude…”

Mona hissed. Panther fought back a laugh, “Mona, Prince Clovis is… uh… so like, Britannia has a king. Or like an emperor. And then he has other people run the different parts of the empire. Prince Clovis is the one who rules Area 11.”

“Which is Japan,” Mona said.

“Right.”

“So Clovis rules Area 11, which is Japan,” he continued.

Joker gave him a thumbs up, “Exactly. The official title’s ‘viceroy.’”

Mona considered that for a moment or two. The poor thing didn’t seem to get it any more when he looked up at the group, “So is _Clovis_ Japanese?”

Skull laughed - Joker, almost did too. Mona threw up his paws and stalked off toward the open doorway. Panther looked to the other two, “That… might be something to keep in mind. Does like… does Kamoshida think Prince Clovis is his flunky? Because _that_ would just be delusional.”

A lot of other things in this place would be too. _That one_ , though, would be too willfully ignorant to the way reality worked for Kamoshida to _survive_ , let alone thrive. Joker shook his head, “I don’t think so. He did a lot bowing for someone who thinks he’s in charge.”

Skull added, “Yeah, and some of the stuff he said sounded like he wishes he _was_ on top, but knows he isn’t.”

Panther scrunched her face up, trying to contort it into something like a plan, “Do we… do we think we could use that? Like, try and convince Clovis to help us?”

“I don’t think that’s happening,” Joker said, before Skull could say the same thing with more venom, “From what I heard, Kamoshida seems to think he has Britannia’s backing.”

“Or at least, like, their _approval_ ,” Skull said.

“Then it probably isn’t something worth worrying about,” Mona declared from the doorway. He put his hands on his hips, “I bet he only showed up because of the holiday you guys keep talking about.”

Joker nodded, “That makes sense. Kamoshida can’t help but think of Britannia, so it manifests in the palace as something above him. What’s above a king?”

Skull blew a tired raspberry - either at the memory of the answer or because he just wasn’t following. Panther set her jaw a little, “Should we… if we do find the treasure, should we hold off on going for it until we know for sure he isn’t gonna swoop in and blow us all up?”

Looking at the sky, Joker shrugged, “I don’t see him. I think we just had bad luck.”

She gave him a sideways look, “And you’re willing to bet our lives on that?”

“I think it’s a risk we can afford,” he said evenly.

It didn’t completely satisfy her, and Joker understood why. He wasn’t sure it wasn’t his own ego telling him to move ahead with things, regardless what dangers may lie ahead. But at the same time, letting the real Kamoshida do as he pleased with impunity for a moment longer felt wrong.

So he held Panther’s gaze until he felt as sure of his stance as he wanted her to be. She backed down - an easy win. She wanted to end this too, “Okay. Then what’s next?”

“We keep climbing the tower!” Mona called out. His voice echoed - he’d already moved up a few steps inside, apparently, “And _I_ lead so _you_ two idiots don’t blow all our cover and get us killed!”

Skull made a couple of nasally, wordless noises. Though he seemed as eager to move on as the cat: he rolled his shoulders back, glancing at Joker, “That what we’re doin’, leader?”

“Get ‘em, tiger,” Joker said. Skull practically clicked his heels, sprinting off to join Mona.

Panther took a moment longer - maybe she was less than excited to go back into Kamoshida’s claustrophobic castle halls. Joker gave her a questioning look, and she smirked, “Has he been calling you ‘leader’ the _whole_ time?”

“Not the _whole_ time,” he said with a wink. She smiled, and they rushed to catch up to the others.

With the team reunited, the halls were _nothing_. When it was just Joker and Skull, they had at least a dominant showing over the shadows. With Mona and Panther, it wasn’t even a contest. Mona kept them careful, kept them honest: they didn’t bother with the detours the boys had gone through when they were alone. Or at least not as many of them.

But sometimes, a shadow would lumber down the stairs. And it would twitch, and it would transform - and the team would unleash hell. Mona went from stealthy shadow to a blur of fur and claws. Skull and Panther made the dim halls light up in blue bursts, then in dancing red.

Joker should have felt less powerful. Surrounded by these three - by their power - should have drained the anger that fueled him and Arsène.

But Arsène wasn’t furious anymore - and neither was Joker: he was ecstatic.

Kamoshida could put whatever he wanted in their path: it didn’t matter anymore. Together they could break through it.

The spiral stairs finally gave way to a twin pair of doors, once again sporting Kamoshida’s gloating face. Skull kicked him right in the teeth, and Panther and Morgana swooped over his shoulders, wind and flame uniting in a burning tornado. Joker charged through it, his knives spinning almost of their own accord. The shadow guards burst back from the floor, their fur capes flapping in the gale the team had kicked up.

One held out a spear towards Joker, calling out, “Idiot intruder! Do you really think-”

He stopped midsentence, because Arsène’s claws poked through the slits in his helmet’s eyes and mouth. Five new horns stabbed out the back of the unfortunate guard’s head. Whatever he’d been about to ask, yeah. Joker _did_ think that.

He could admit it: he was disappointed when the fire died down and he saw that there were none of them left. Only then did Joker actually pay any attention to the room he was in: the walls were lined with gilded roses. Veins covered the floor, the walls, the ceiling, twitching and throbbing like an erratic heartbeat as they pointed to the back of the room. A red carpet, sprinkled with flower petals and frayed at the edges where Panther had worked her magic, rolled up to a marble door.

It soared up into maybe another story worth of space. Five chandeliers were still too dim to keep the chamber from being dim: they almost seemed more there to hide the fresco painted on the ceiling. A naked man reached up (or down, depending on where you were in the room) towards the clouds, where another, larger man, dressed in billowing blue and white robes, held aloft a pointed golden crown. The one man’s back was to the onlooker, and the other’s was obscured by the glare of the light.

Instead of a key, the door at the head of the hallway had a thin slot, just big enough to fit a book. What luck, then, that one was placed right at its base.

Skull straight up ignored it, going to the massive doorway and giving it a solid kick. He bounced, as expected, harmlessly off of it. It was still a worthy effort.

The others all congregated around the book. Joker picked it up, saying simply, “‘All Things in Their Place, Part Three: The King.’”

This time, he didn’t wait to open it up: they were all ready now, “‘The King has been chosen by God. This is his blessing, but also his curse. It means that his power is infinite, as God’s is, but he may only continue to wield it so long as God ordains it.

“‘This shall chafe the King, who knows that his rule ought be absolute with or without God’s decree. He may be mightier than God, but God’s host is larger and far more fearful. Therefore, the wise King must consent to be bound before this lesser ruler. It is a worthy exchange: all of the spoils of the earth shall be the King’s, outside of the lazy eye of God. The cunning King may do as he pleases, so long as he does so unseen.

“‘This is the great secret of leadership: God may rule more of the world. But King Kamoshida’s rule, though his fief be small, is far more splendid and absolute. May he reign eternal.’”

Joker let it sit, looked at the others’ faces. Brows knit, and jaws were set. But the words had no other power over them. Joker smiled, waving the book like a fan, “Wow. If _he’s_ stronger than God… I wonder what that says about _us_?”

“That we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves?” Mona suggested.

Skull shook his head, “That’s like… supposed to be how he _really_ thinks of Britannia, right? Seriously… what a crock of shit.”

“Breathtaking mental gymnastics,” Panther added. She looked at the doorway, “The thing’s more useful as a key.”

Joker nodded, glad to be rid of the book. As he set it in place, the door rumbled, slowly starting to sink into the ground. There wasn’t much behind: just a last piece of the chamber. A set of white stone stairs, surrounded on all sides by glowing golden windows (which Joker was fairly sure had no equivalent on the outside of the building). They led to a throne: it was mostly gold too. The seat was red velvet, as was the back, which rose up into the shape of a heart.

Seated in the throne was… well. That was the question, wasn’t it.

It may just have been the most beautiful sight Joker had ever laid eyes on, but at the same time, it repulsed him, but _also_ he had no idea why he should feel either of those. They were looking at a swirling mass of… was it light or haze? Maybe both. It was like someone had rubbed out whatever was supposed to be there, and left the streaks and pencil shavings of it behind.

He tore his eyes from it, looking to where Mona had already taken his first steps on to the dais leading up to the mass, “Mona. What’re we looking at?”

The cat made a reverent squeal before turning to face the team again. His eyes shined like diamonds, “Isn’t it obvious? That’s the treasure!”

The three of them looked at it again. Skull opened his mouth, closed it. When another beat passed, he tried again, “I’ll, uh… I’ll get a jar? Seriously, how’re we getting this out of here?”

Mona scoffed, “ _Seriously_? It’s not the treasure _yet_ , moron.”

Panther trampled over the inevitable growling, “Okay, but what does that mean? It’s the treasure but it’s not the treasure? You can see how that doesn’t…”

“Oh, Panther,” Mona said, shaking his head. Joker wondered if he imagined the twitch in her eye, “Sometimes I forget how new you are to all this! Don’t worry, it’s all very simple.”

Joker smiled sweetly, “Enlighten us.”

As he did, Joker understood why he’d withheld this from the team when they’d first planned the infiltration. Skull and Panther had been ready to be _done_ after today. Go in, get out. Win big and fast.

As the cat put it, “This is the source of Kamoshida’s cognitive distortion - but it’s just a concept right now. You can’t _steal_ a concept. You have to make it real.” He hopped up a few more steps: if the treasure had really been there, he may actually have been inside it, “So what do we do, team? How do we make a thing real in a place that’s built entirely around what a specific person thinks is reality?”

The answer came to Joker so fast that he didn’t even care that he was being talked down to, “We make Kamoshida think his desires can be stolen.”

“Exactly!” Mona hopped up and down for joy, “ _Exactly_ , Joker! We send a calling card to him in the real world, announcing that we’re going to steal his treasure. _That_ will make him think that his desires _can_ be stolen, and _that_ will make _this_ ,” he waved his paws in the mist, somehow not disturbing their ebb and flow in the slightest, “Into something real!”

Panther chewed on that, trying to force it into a position that made sense, “It’s not real. But everything he _thinks_ is real _is_ real in here. So we make him _think_ it’s real?”

“Exactly!!!” Mona shouted again. He beamed down at them, “You’re all catching on so fast.” His eyes narrowed, “But we have to be smart about this, too. We can’t afford to screw around when we come back: if Kamoshida’s on guard because he thinks his treasure’s going to be stolen, his palace is going to be on high alert. _No detours_.”

“Whatever man,” Skull punched his fist, his grin almost nostalgically feral, “That jackass can bring on whatever he wants to throw at us - he can’t stop us now!”

Panther let out an almost giddy laugh in agreement. Joker just stepped forward, eyes on Mona, “So. What’s our next move, then?”

“Simple: we send the calling card.”


	10. The Phantom Thieves

**August 10, 2017 A.T.B. - Akira**

There wasn’t much left for them to do now: all they had to do was send Kamoshida a calling card. Then it was into the Metaverse, grab the treasure, get back out. Bing, bang, boom.

 _In_ the Metaverse it really did seem that simple. The four of them were unstoppable as it was, and it felt like they only got stronger with every obstacle Kamoshida put in their path. All the calling card really did was get him to set up the pins so they could knock them down.

When they returned to reality, though, and sat around the council table to discuss the plan like this were any other club activity, complications began to arise.

For one thing, Akira remembered abruptly that _here_ , he was not Joker, dashing thief and possible demigod. There was no Arsène to rip through his problems, no Pixie to mend his injuries. Joker could go where he wanted, do as he pleased. Akira Kurusu couldn’t even leave Ashford without being held up for questioning.

It hit him every time they came back. If they were going to keep using the Metaverse, he was going to have to get over it.

This time, though, the loss of power hurt more than just his ego. How exactly were they supposed to send the calling card? The logistics seemed all the more daunting once you took the team’s personas out of the picture.

Time was a factor. Ryuji would have to go back to the ghetto tonight - and he probably would want to be seen working before he did. Ann and Akira could afford to be seen at whatever remained of the party, too.

“I’m thinking that it should definitely be a written note,” Morgana said, sitting statuesque in the table’s center, “Obviously that lets all of you guys stay anonymous - honestly, he might find some shadowy unknown person more threatening than all of you. No offense.”

Some taken. Ryuji let out a frustrated raspberry. His chair was turned around, and he kept leaning it forward, letting it back up whenever it tapped against the table’s edge. Akira worried he’d break it or fall if he kept doing that. For now, he only muttered, “He _oughta_ be scared of us…”

Maybe, but dwelling on that wouldn’t help them now. Akira drummed a thumb against the table, considering, “Do we need to say anything in particular? There’s not, like, magic words or whatever that we need to throw in?”

Morgana shrugged as much as a cat could shrug, “As long as he gets the idea that we’re gonna steal his distorted desires. It wouldn’t hurt if it was something he could take seriously as a threat, too. If he doesn’t take it seriously, I don’t think the treasure’ll manifest.”

There was that ‘I think’ again. This may have been as new territory for the cat as it was for the rest of them, but it was still a little frustrating sometimes. What if they went to the trouble of sending the card, and then nothing happened when they got back to the treasure?

It wouldn’t help to think about _that_ either. Ann furrowed her brow a little in thought, “We should put it on the display case in the gym. That’s somewhere he’s sure to see it, _and_ it’s one of the places here where he’s gonna feel the most secure. So we take that away from him.”

Ryuji shot out of his seat, the chair falling to the ground with a heavier _thud_ than Akira had expected, “Oh! Then I’ve definitely got it!” He grinned, jerking a thumb at himself, “Nobody looks twice at the cleanin’ staff. I’ll write somethin’ up and sneak it on while I’m there!”

“You’re doing this while you’re working?” Akira asked. Ryuji nodded, and he grimaced, “Okay. How’re you getting the card past the ghetto checkpoint? I assume they search your bags.”

Ryuji thought about that for a few seconds, inevitably realizing that he had no answer and hanging his head, “God damn it.”

“Sorry, man,” Akira said gently. He closed his eyes, leaning back into the plush of his seat, “I think that we should send the card tonight. Everyone’s distracted with Milly’s thing.”

“No complaints here - the sooner we deal with Kamoshida, the better,” Ann added, “Honestly, Mona, I kinda wish you’d told us about this part earlier. We could already be done.”

“We didn’t _know_ we were going to make it to the treasure today,” Morgana said, “If we’d sent Kamoshida a calling card and waited too long, the treasure would’ve just vanished again in a day or so. I don’t know if it would reappear on a repeat performance.”

Letting a frustrated breath out, Akira said, “So we’ve got a time limit, too? Morgana, you _have_ to start telling us this all straight out.”

He hissed, which didn’t seem _fully_ fair, “Well _you_ try getting all the information you guys need out in one breath! I don’t see you giving me a crash course on how the real world works!”

“Well, yeah, there’d kinda be a lot to…” Akira paused. Morgana bristled triumphantly, “Point taken. Still though.”

“Yeah, _still though_ ,” the cat said. He could never just be satisfied with a victory - he had to at least rub it in a little. Not that Akira wouldn’t have done the same, “Tonight should work fine - as long as you’ll all be ready to go tomorrow.”

“Dude, we’ve _been_ ready,” Ryuji grumbled. He glared out the window: lights still danced in the middle of campus, but that’s probably not what he was seeing. Cracking his neck, Ryuji growled, “I still owe that bastard.”

“We _all_ do,” Ann said.

“Tonight, then?” Akira asked, “Ryuji, how long until you have to head back?”

He shrugged, casting his gaze about for a clock, “I dunno, how long’ve we been gone? Probably once the party dies down?”

“Which will be…?” Akira glanced at Ann.

She made a noncommittal noise, “Milly doesn’t really go for hard schedules. _Probably_ late, if it’s a hit?”

“We’ll go fast, then,” Akira said, rising from his seat, “This’ll work best as a team effort.”

It was lucky that they’d opted to do this tonight. Apparently, preparing for the painted faces ball had called for artistic supplies - obviously paints, but in what was probably a first, those were less important than a couple bottles of glue and a good pair of scissors. There were also some fashion magazines (“For inspiration,” as Ann explained) strewn about the dance hall. In not picking up after herself, Milly had actually saved the team the time it’d take to track that stuff down themselves.

From there it was just a matter of figuring out exactly what they should say. Ryuji had _several_ ideas. They were all true in spirit, but most could afford to have their delivery workshopped.

Once they knew what to say, they scanned the magazines for letters or words they could use, cutting and pasting the bits to a piece of black construction paper. The image of a bunch of grade schoolers making a ransom note for cops and robbers popped into Akira’s head, and he couldn’t shake it. This was easily the most childish he’d felt during this whole process.

A rational and calm part of him was a little embarrassed by that. Surely if this was a method he could imagine actual children coming up with, it was a bad plan.

But another - the part that usually only got to come alive on the other side of reality - loved the image. This _should_ have been fun, _should_ have been a miniature flashback to when they were all young and the world was simple. There was a _reason_ they called it child’s play.

Like children, they were all still bound by other people’s schedules. Midway through the calling card, Ann checked her phone, grimacing at what she saw there. She asked Ryuji, “Is seven cutting it a little close?”

Ryuji gave her a confused look over the issue of Vague he was combing through for the word ‘prepare.’ She tapped her wrist, and his eyes widened, “Crap.” He scrambled back into uniform, struggling only for a moment to find his cap. Straightening it, he sighed, spreading his hands, “Do I look okay?”

He’d left a couple of the top buttons unbuttoned. Maybe that was a style choice - or even a strategic one. _Clearly_ Ryuji had been hard at work all night, wasn’t that obvious from how disheveled he was? Never mind the manic light in his eyes.

Akira gave him a thumbs up, and Ryuji tipped his hat, “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Stay safe,” Ann said, “Let us know when you’re back home, okay?”

He waved off the notion, already halfway out, “Yeah, yeah.”

Her eyes narrowed as the door clicked shut behind him. She returned to the calling card, muttering, “Don’t you ‘yeah, yeah’ me.”

Akira bit his tongue. This was the trouble of seeing both sides. From the outside, that seemed _just_ rude. Ryuji especially should’ve thought better of brushing off _Ann_ \- for self preservation’s sake if nothing else.

But then on the other hand, it hurt enough to return to powerlessness when Akira was coming back to _Ashford_. He could only imagine what it would be like to be going back to the ghetto every night.

It was their nerves and their frustrations. Or better yet, it was _nothing_ except for Akira’s own imaginings sabotaging the mission. What it definitely _wasn’t_ was ‘worth getting into.’

Morgana, who knew and more importantly _understood_ so much less, was still confident saying, “If he runs into any trouble, that’s on _him_ , Lady Ann. You give him more than enough slack as it is.”

That was just _begging_ for a fight. Akira tried to distract himself with their search - they’d need to pick up the pace if they were going to get this done before Lelouch or Nunnally got back. He found that he couldn’t say nothing, though, “He’s not _that_ bad, Mona.”

“Oh yeah, you two got along _famously_ ,” the cat said.

Akira shrugged. They _had_. So what if their time working together hadn’t _quite_ gone to plan, “He’s a good guy. I’m glad I had him in my corner.”

Morgana was content to just scoff at that. Which was fine, if not fair. Once he decided what he thought of you, nothing anyone else said was ever going to change that.

Ann considered it a little more. There was a beat, and then another, and then she set down her scissors and looked at Akira, “No one’s saying that Ryuji’s not a good guy.” She held up a finger before Morgana could do exactly that, “I’m just worried.”

“Yeah,” Akira said. He was too, “We all are.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t _all_ set an avenging angel on the team,” Ann said. There wasn’t even that much reproach in her voice - just cards-on-table frankness, “This is… I dunno. _Cathartic_ for you two, I know.” Akira nodded - though he didn’t think it was necessarily fair for Ann to think of herself as any different on that front, “But we’re not _just_ doing this for us. If we screw up tomorrow, we’re not the only ones who suffer. I just want to be sure that when we _do this_ , we do it right.”

“Then be sure,” Akira said immediately. Before she could tell him that it wasn’t that simple, he said, “Today, I thought the best possible way to scope out the castle would be to explore every possible way forward. I was wrong, and it blew up in all of our faces. _Tomorrow_ , there’s no possibilities to explore. We _know_ the best way to do this. All there is is to do it.”

Ann and Morgana both looked at him intently. Akira met their gaze. They’d both already put so much trust in him - trust that he’d been careless with. If they were smart, they wouldn’t put up with that forever. But he hoped they would for a little longer - it would give him time to change.

Ann nodded, trying for levity to cut through the heavy atmosphere, “Jeez. You don’t think that’s a little too serious, Akira?”

Solemnly, Morgana said, “I don’t think that was Frizz just now, Lady Ann.” He beamed at Akira, “That was all Joker.”

He should’ve been honored. And he was.

But also he couldn’t keep from snickering. At least he wasn’t alone: Ann’s lips twisted, but a giggle still squeaked out. Morgana arched his back and hissed, “Oh come on!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Akira said, “I can just never tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“For real,” Ann said, scratching behind Morgana’s ears apologetically, “No one says stuff like that and _means_ it.”

For his part, the cat was too busy warbling his approval to say anything, so Akira gave the response he probably would have, “Maybe they should start.”

Ann smiled, “Yeah. Maybe they should.”

**August 11, 2017 A.T.B. - Ann**

Ann didn’t end up getting much sleep after the infiltration.

It wasn’t so much the last bits of setup she and Akira had done. Those hadn’t taken long: just a quick trip to the photocopier and a brief trek to the gym. Ann had stayed up a lot later working on projects she cared a lot less about in the past.

And it wasn’t that she wasn’t tired. The Metaverse took less out of her than the impossible stuff she did there should have, but she still left exhausted every time. How did Ryuji go right from that into even _pretending_ to work?

It had felt like she was going to hit the pillow and just be dead to the world. Stumbling into her dorm room, there had been a beautiful, soft moment where Ann had been sure that exactly that was going to happen.

Then she’d rolled onto her back, and the thought had occurred to her: what if there was a camera on the gym?

Ann had never _seen_ one. Spying on students might’ve _seemed_ like a Britannian thing to do, but she was pretty sure she’d never seen _any_ kind of surveillance equipment on campus, except for whatever was mounted directly on the outer wall.

But what if?

That had opened the floodgates for all kinds of questions.

What if something in the way they’d written the calling card gave them away? What if the angel Clovis came back? What if Kamoshida saw the card, but the treasure still didn’t appear?

No matter how she tried to reason with her nerves, it was no use. Ann was still wide awake when Ryuji’s ‘home safe’ text pinged into the groupchat. And then later, when he followed it up with, ‘were gonna kill it tmw.’ And even later, when he added, ‘cant sleep.’

At first, Ann had tried to ignore him, rolling onto one side, then the other. Then she’d huffed and picked her phone back up. ‘Me neither,’ she replied. If she was going to be a ball of anxiety, at least she wouldn’t be alone in it.

Only maybe she would. Ryuji never got back to her - apparently ‘can’t’ was an exaggeration for him. Lucky.

The only solace in it all was that, for all her anxieties, this was the last time. The spectre of Kamoshida would give her one more sleepless night, and then she’d consign it to oblivion.

If Ann kept saying that to herself, she’d believe it eventually. If she focused on her breathing, her mind would clear. Sleep was an unusual enemy to be struggling with at this juncture, but Ann could overcome it nonetheless.

She was still groggy when her alarm went off. But she couldn’t remember the sun rising, and now it was shining through the blinds onto her face. A qualified victory, then.

Her mind immediately set to racing again. Ann wished it would give her at least a moment to get out of her morning haze. It was so stupid: in her head, there was _no way_ they were going to fail. She wouldn’t allow it. But also, here were all of the things that could go wrong for her to worry about! Because that was what she needed.

Ann looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She didn’t _look_ like a mess. Her hair had already begun its almost preternatural transition from bedhead to fluff. The bags under her eyes weren’t so thick that a little concealer couldn’t cover them up.

If she were an outsider, she’d never know anything was wrong.

Her reflection knitted its brows, whispering, “You mean you wouldn’t know you were _planning anything_.”

True. Because nothing was wrong. Not really. Not when they were about to win.

Ann tried on a bubbly smile. That was what the outside world expected, that’s what it was going to get. It felt unnatural, but not as bad as it had a week ago. It wasn’t that she was contorting herself anymore. This was just a mask she was wearing. Masks could be taken off.

“You’ve got this,” her reflection said. Whatever else swirled in her mind, Ann believed it.

It was always strange to prepare for the regular day ahead of a trip into the Metaverse. There was always going to be that long dull, made all the worse by the weight of the work to be done at the end of it. This time might’ve been even worse: now there was a ticking time bomb hanging over everything. When were people going to notice the calling card? Would Ann even know when it happened?

Apparently, she would, and it would happen early. Her phone buzzed, and Ann’s heart skipped a beat. Shirley - _of course_ Shirley was stopping by the gym this early, ‘Where are you? There’s something crazy going on at the gym.’

And there it was: her cue. Ann pumped a fist, heading back to the scene of the crime. It wasn’t long until Shirley sent another text, ‘You didn’t oversleep again, did you?’

 _One time_. Ann replied, ‘Calm down, I’m on my way.’ Remembering a few steps later that she wasn’t supposed to know what she was on her way _to_ , she added, ‘What’s up?’

She doubted Shirley would have anything to say to that - if this were something she thought she could talk about in text, she would’ve said it already.

To most of Ashford, everything was business as usual. People relaxed in the fields before their morning classes. All of the artwork that had been on display for the festival was gone now.

She’d been focused on other things, but the painted faces ball hadn’t been quite the bridge between cultures Ann had dreamed it up as. Everything had been about the ridiculous costumes: the art and the fact that a former Eleven had painted it was ultimately secondary. The message was watered down, diluted until there was no message at all. Ann wondered if Rousseau had even gotten to speak.

“It was a bit of a let down, to be honest,” Ann happened to hear a girl with looping black braids from the year below her say, “I feel like they could’ve gotten a more famous artist.”

It was a little disappointing, but not really unexpected. If Ann’s cultural festival was going to _really_ upset the status quo, it would never have been allowed.

 _This_ would be different, and only reaching the end of it did Ann realize how much. Even if it were just this tiny corner of the world, people were going to notice this.

As she came closer to the gym, the clumps of people started getting a little thicker, a little less carefree. People were already whispering about what was going on.

“It’s gotta be some kind of prank, right?”

“Or some student council BS.”

“Yeah, but like… what if it’s real?”

Half the student body didn’t seem to think it was real, and honestly, Ann was right there with them. It didn’t _feel_ like things had started. Shouldn’t there have been some noticeable shift, now that they’d thrown the dice and sent the calling card?

Clumps gave way to crowds as Ann entered the gym, all bustling around the trophy case. Ann regretted not getting the chance to see her and Akira’s handiwork on its initial reveal: they’d printed enough copies to cover the case from top to bottom, like so many red and black feathers. It had been molting since being discovered: patches of glass were now uncovered. They’d originally set it up so that all there was was a window to Kamoshida and the ‘Britannian’ team at the 2000 Olympics.

The image was ruined, but that had been part of the plan, too. Students crowded around anyone who’d plucked a calling card, murmuring to each other. There was no Kamoshida yet.So Ann hadn’t missed that part of the show.

When it came, Ann couldn’t look pleased. This had to be confusing. What did confused Ann look like?

“Ann!”

Shirley had been waiting for her by the case, ducking through the crowds to get to her. It was a good thing she hadn’t waited for Ann to come her way. As satisfying as it might be to loom right next to Kamoshida once he got here, it also could give the game away.

“Hey,” Ann said. It sounded like the most unnatural thing in the world. She spared what she hoped was a casual glance around, “What’s all this?”

“Look!” Shirley said, practically shoving a card into Ann’s hand. Her brow was furrowed with worry, “I could barely believe it. I _still_ can’t believe it!”

Ann tried to make a show of being nonchalant about reading the calling card. Was her emphasis the same as it was when she usually read something boring out loud, or was she obviously reading something she’d seen before? How many times had her eyebrow arched since she started looking at it, and how many before it became unbelievable?

“‘Sir Suguru Kamoshida, demon king of lust. We have witnessed your crimes: how you force your twisted desires on those who cannot fight back. Therefore, we have decided to steal away those desires, and make you confess your sins. Prepare yourself: we come for you tonight. From, the Phantom Thieves of Hearts.’”

She looked at Shirley, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach, waving the card like a fan, “Heavy stuff for a joke.”

Nervously shifting from one foot to the other, Shirley asked, “So you think it’s _definitely_ a joke? I’m not so sure.”

“Shirley, come on,” Ann said, turning the card back around. She pointed to the doodle Ryuji had drawn on it: a crude top hat over eyes and a toothy grin. On the master copy, he’d born down enough drawing circles around the eyes for the ‘mask’ to bleed through the paper, “Look at that little guy. Someone with a logo like this is _obviously_ just playing around.”

Shirley crossed her arms, skeptical. Ann couldn’t see why, her logic was flawless. Even if, “Some people just can’t draw, Ann.”

She smiled sheepishly, trying to find the obvious witty retort to that. It wouldn’t come to her - at least, nothing that wasn’t a confession would.

Of all people, Kamoshida would be the one to rescue her. His voice boomed above the commotion, forceful enough to clear a path, “Who is responsible for this!?”

It was absurd how guilty everyone suddenly looked. Most were shocked into silence, staring at their feet. Anyone who’d taken a calling card hid it behind their backs.

But then there were those who _didn’t_ avert their gaze - the ones who looked back at Kamoshida with what was beginning to look like suspicion.

It was strange to see - almost as strange as seeing King Kamoshida outside of the Metaverse. He may not have had a cape or a crown - and _thank god_ , he was dressed. But there was that furious energy, that desperate bluster. His own mask, normally so safely in place, had fallen away.

The harmless, affable schoolteacher he pretended to be was gone.

Kamoshida snatched a calling card from the display case. Ann wondered if he spared a glance at the photo of his past victory before he read over the card. He was practically shaking with rage by the time he was done, seething again, “I asked a question. Who is responsible for this?!”

Ann smirked. She couldn’t help it. It had been thrilling enough to see him afraid of her in the Metaverse. Seeing it now on _this_ Kamoshida, the Kamoshida she _actually_ had to stop, was intoxicating.

“‘Phantom thieves!?’” Kamoshida spat. Someone snorted, and he roared, “You think this is funny?! This is… is a threat! Not just to me-” he pointed, sweeping the gesture over the crowd around him. He _wanted_ his other self’s authority, the complete control he imagined on Ashford’s mindset. All Ann could imagine was a cornered animal, “To all of you! Don’t you get it? Whoever put this up… this is terrorism!”

Someone far enough to the back to be brave called out, “So what’d you do, Kamoshida?”

“Who said that!?” Kamoshida shouted. When no one came forward, he balled up the calling card, tossing it aside in an act of petty destruction. Under his breath, in Japanese, he growled, “Fine. Bring it.”

Ann would have loved to stay and witness Kamoshida’s castle melting down from the outside, but every second she stayed was another chance for him to notice her. If that happened, there was no way she wasn’t going to give away _who_ had sent the calling card.

Someone she passed whispered to their friend, “You know, I’ve _always_ thought he was kinda a creeper.” She supposed now was as good a time as any to finally voice those thoughts.

Ann was back outside the gym, facing a day that somehow seemed brighter, when Shirley caught up to her. If she tried her hardest, she could keep her excitement off her face - but hopefully Shirley wouldn’t look too close at her eyes.

In any event, Shirley seemed too wrapped up in her own concern, “That… I…”

“Yeah, that was a lot,” Ann said breathily. She could play it off as nerves.

“I’ve never seen Mr. Kamoshida like that,” Shirley murmured.

“Yeah,” Ann lied, “Me neither.” It was something of a relief that Shirley had _finally_ gotten a glimpse of the Kamoshida that Ann knew, even if it had been at a safe distance. She still hoped her friend would never have to be the object of his attentions.

Then Shirley said, “Do you… do you think that this has anything to do with Shiho- _kun_?”

It actually took Ann aback. Shirley was just _so_ close. She wasn’t even wrong - with a few more pieces, she’d solve the puzzle. And then… what? Ann would be in trouble? Or she’d have unexpected help?

The smart move - the move that was best for the _team_ \- was misdirection. To tell Shirley that that was something different, something unrelated. That the calling card and Shiho’s suicide attempt had nothing to do with each other.

And try as she might, Ann couldn’t do that to Shiho, “If it does, he deserves whatever he gets.” By the way that Shirley looked at her, that had been a little too vicious. She tried on an embarrassed smile, “Sorry. That’s just still a little raw, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Shirley said. Ann _must_ have been imagining the note of curiosity in her voice, “I get it.” She thought for a little longer, adding, “Listen, we should talk about this with the student council. Just in case it _does_ turn out to be some kind of terrorist thing?”

Ann tensed, and she forced some whine into her voice, “Shirley, I _really_ don’t think that that’s-”

“I know,” but of course she’d already fished out her phone, “But just in case.”

They hadn’t planned for anything like that. Hopefully the meeting wouldn’t go on too long. With a sigh, Ann took out her own phone, “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

Shirley smiled brightly, flashing a v-sign, “Of course I am! If there’s someone in the faculty acting inappropriately, _or_ if this is some bad taste joke by a student, it’s our job to be on top of that!”

Ann giggled, maybe a little too nervously, “Guess it’s a good thing we have you around to remind us that the council’s not _all_ fun and games.” Even if right now it was a bit of a monkey wrench.

Shirley grinned, completely oblivious to the nuisance she was making of herself. Ann smiled back before looking down at her phone: she’d worry about the meeting when it was happening. For now, the others needed to know. In the thieves’ groupchat, she wrote simply, ’We’re in.’

**August 11, 2017 A.T.B. - Akira**

They’d come so close. It had finally been about to happen. If Rivalz just hadn’t had work today, they could’ve had the whole student council assembled for the first time since Akira was abducted into it.

He didn’t really know what to make of Nina Einstein. Until now, she’d been the only council member he’d yet to meet. She’d always had an excuse to not be there for any of the meetings he’d been able to attend. That wasn’t an accident, if Ann’s irritated looks were anything to go by.

Apparently she couldn’t get out of this meeting, though. She’d been whispering something to Milly when Akira came in, and had gone from quiet to silence in a hurry.

Milly had given him an apologetic look, which he’d waved off. Abject terror was new, but not the worst thing he’d been shown at Ashford. He tried on the most squeaky clean tones he had - tried to sound as harmless as possible, “Hi. You must be the elusive Nina.”

Nina had gasped. Not harmless enough, then. Milly nudged her, and she looked up at him. Akira kind of wished she hadn’t: by those wide eyes, she thought he was going to snap and attack her at any moment. She managed a stuttering, “H-hello.” And then it was right back to staring at the floor, wringing her hands below the table.

She’d stayed like that as everyone else’s smalltalk turned into the day’s business. Every now and then, Akira felt her eyes on him - he assumed it was her. He knew better than to look back: _that_ could be threatening.

It was a nice distraction, though. Something to keep his mind off of what was coming - and to keep his face neutral when Shirley presented the calling card.

She slapped it onto the table like a lawyer presenting evidence, an absurd determination on her face, “So. Everybody here already knows about the threats Mr. Kamoshida received, right?”

Akira wasn’t sure he’d call them threats, though he also wasn’t sure what other word fit. Even if they were, there was technically only one. Though wasn’t it interesting that he wasn’t the affectionate ‘Kamoshida- _sensei_ ’ anymore.

Next to Akira, Lelouch leaned forward a little to inspect the calling card. His lip quirked upward a little as he read it, “‘Phantom Thieves?’ Really?” Tossing the card back down, he said, “This is obviously a joke, Shirley.”

She set her jaw, her face a little red, “It’s not _obviously_ anything! Someone threatened a teacher - even if it _is_ a joke, it’s not _funny_!”

“I dunno,” Milly mused, “I thought the drawing was pretty cute.”

“Oh come on!” Shirley was starting to get shrill, “Madame President, can’t you even _pretend_ to take this seriously?”

She sighed, “No, Shirley, I can’t. For one thing, I don’t think it’s real. Like… Kamoshida- _sensei_? Come on. The man’s a teddy bear.”

 _Wildly_ incorrect - and surprising for it. Milly had been a pretty good judge of character for what little time Akira had known her. That was a _massive_ blindspot to have.

Then again, that sort of blindspot was the reason they even needed the Metaverse to deal with Kamoshida.

“Well then…!” Shirley let out a frustrated groan. The others gave her a moment, and she came back more evenly, “That’s _more_ reason for us to look into this, not less. If someone’s making false accusations, we should prove them wrong before the rumor spreads!”

Lelouch gave Akira a surreptitious look, raising a bored eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean - maybe just, ‘can you believe Shirley’s wasting our time with this crap?’

Or maybe, ‘Oh, she cares about dispelling rumors _now_?’

Which wasn’t lost on Akira. Everyone in the student council had done a great job of dancing around his probation. On campus at large, though, he still heard whispers about what exactly he’d done that had brought him to Ashford. They were getting less frequent, but more extravagant.

Ann leaned back in her chair, looking at the ceiling. Maybe a little too detached sounding, she said, “It might actually be worse if it _is_ real. I mean, can you imagine? A teacher at Ashford… what did it say? ‘Forcing his twisted desires?’”

She made a retching noise. Akira wished she were sitting close enough that he could kick her under the table for overacting. Milly looked at Ann thoughtfully for a few moments, tentatively asking, “Well, you know him best, _Ann_ -chan. Do you think that he could…?” she let it hang in the air, maybe because she wasn’t ready to commit to any one accusation.

For just a moment, Ann’s eyes widened in surprise. Akira didn’t know what she’d been expecting: if you said something like _that_ , people were going to follow up. She let out a breathy, completely incongruous laugh, “I don’t know him as well as people think I do, Milly.”

“Akira- _kun_ , what’s your take?” Shirley asked, and he admitted, he jumped a little. All eyes were suddenly on him, “You’ve been quiet.”

So had Nina, but no one was asking _her_ opinions on this. Akira scratched idly at his face, lying coming easily, “I don’t really have one. Ann, this’s the guy we met on my first day, right?” She nodded. He shrugged, “Then I haven’t really talked with him since.”

Shirley scrunched her lips, clearly disappointed, “Oh. I thought you would’ve.”

Akira almost said something caustic: he’d clearly been spending too much time with people he could speak freely with. Instead he just smiled and said, “I don’t really need Japanese lessons, Shirley- _san_.”

She gave him an embarrassed smile, “ _Hontou_.” He gave her a thumbs up, hoping no one noticed him scooting back in his seat a little. The less he could be involved in this conversation, the better. Shirley seemed perfectly ready to move on, “But I think that if anything, that proves we should be looking into this. Even if it _does_ turn out to be a prank or something, what if it’s _not_?”

“What if the…” Milly briefly consulted with the card, smirking to herself, “What if the _Phantom Thieves of Hearts_ steal away Mr. Kamoshida’s desires? I guess then he’ll confess his sins, according to this _serious_ _threat_.”

Lelouch chuckled, “In which case, more power to them.” He threw an arm over the back of his chair, saying, “If Kamoshida _has_ sins to confess, what do we care if someone forces it out of him? Seems to me that our best option is to just let this play out.”

Shirley fumed, “Funny how your idea is ‘do nothing,’ Lulu.”

“Hilarious even,” he said, deadpan. Flicking his bangs out of his eyes, he said, “Look at it this way: what are the possibilities? One: the card is a prank, and we’ll only draw unnecessary attention to Mr. Kamoshida by making a big deal out of it. So we should do nothing to avoid that. Two: the card is real, and the Phantom Thieves extort Mr. Kamoshida into confessing some great crime we wouldn’t otherwise know about. So we should do nothing.”

“Three: the card is real, but the Thieves fail,” Akira said before he could stop himself. Ann gave him a look like he’d just suggested they all dance naked. She was one to talk about playing it a little too close with their cover. Hell, this was _amazing_ cover - there was, after all, no way that his Phantom Thieves could fail, “In which case, Mr. Kamoshida is now walking around free with some horrible secret.”

Lelouch considered that for a moment, then winked, “Well, in that case, that would mean he _already_ has that secret. So I still say do nothing - nothing changes.”

Akira blinked. He hadn’t expected that answer. It felt wrong, somehow. Well it _would_ \- Akira’s inability to do nothing in the face of injustice was what had gotten him here.

But it also just felt wrong for Lelouch. He smiled lightly at his surprise, spreading his hands, “Sometimes the only move is to wait.”

“Comforting,” Ann muttered.

“Seriously,” Shirley added, her voice just one degree short of ice. She dialed it back, going fully formal to say, “Madame President, if we _don’t_ do anything, I want it on record that I’m going to look into this myself. Just because you all want to do nothing doesn’t mean _I’m_ going to.”

Milly rubbed at her temples, murmuring, “You’re all so serious - it’s gonna give me a migraine.” Shirley prepared something indignant in the back of her throat, and Milly held up a hand, “Okay, okay, stand down. How about this: we give it a day. The Phantom Thieves said they were gonna strike tonight. So if this is real, something will happen. If nothing does, I’ll ask Mr. Kamoshida to come on the PA and we’ll do an interview or something like that. Give him the chance to rebut any rumors that’ve started by then.”

“But-”

“ _Meanwhile_ , you can do whatever investigation your little heart desires,” pleased with herself, Milly flopped back into her chair, grinning from ear to ear, “Lulu, you better step up your game: look how excited Shirley is to sniff around _another man_.”

“ _Madame President_!”

It was a seamless transition out of talking about Kamoshida - which must have been the whole point. Shirley shrieked - much less articulately or focused - how that was ‘completely unprofessional’ and ‘totally inappropriate’ and ‘honestly borderline sexual harassment at this point.’ She completely failed to faze Milly, who leaned in to watch the show with her chin resting on laced fingers, the most suspiciously innocent smile on her face.

Conversely, Lelouch was just quietly bewildered by the whole thing.

Once Shirley finally calmed down, they adjourned for the day, at which point Nina practically flew out of the room. Milly sighed, giving Akira an apologetic look, “It’s not just…” just the _existence of an Eleven_. “She’s also working on a project. She’ll come around.”

He nodded, but wouldn’t hold his breath. Honestly, Akira might’ve preferred if they left the fact unsaid that what was scaring her so much was _him_. Acknowledging it and not treating it as a problem stung. Or maybe it was nicer to have it out in the open? It was hard to say.

But it was easy to wave off, “I get it. Do you think it’d help more or less if I tried talking to her?”

Milly blinked, having clearly not considered that. She did now, hemming out, “Well… definitely not one on one. Like, don’t _corner_ her.”

Akira feigned a gasp of shock, “Really?”

She chuckled, “I know, right? But as for in meetings… I’m not really sure. I don’t think the Einsteins even have Eleven servants, so you and Kamoshida are her first.”

“Ann and I are gonna get started on the investigation, Akira- _kun_ ,” Shirley said before he could respond. Ann’s let out a surprised squeak: apparently she hadn’t known that. She and Akira shared a mutual look of panic while Shirley chirped away, “And you’re more than welcome to help out! You can offer an insider’s perspective!”

Could he? Akira laughed nervously - it wasn’t hard to fake. Without even knowing it, Shirley was coming dangerously close to blowing the whole operation. The lie clumsily strung itself together, “There’s… kinda stuff I have to take care of tonight for my probation.” Akira mentally kicked himself for forgetting euphemism. Ah well, lean into it, “Besides I don’t really know if you want my name on anything you find out. Might hurt your credibility.”

Shirley considered, tapping her foot slightly. Akira got the feeling she was used to spotting this kind of awful excuse. But she still nodded, “Okay. You’ve been working hard - you get off this time.” She pointed a warning at him, “But just this _one_ time! I don’t want Lulu rubbing off on you!”

“Hey,” Lelouch said without heat. Seriously. There might be worse things than being more like him.

But Akira still smiled, extending a pinky finger - she’d like this, “Deal.”

She brightened, “Ooh, a sacred Japanese pinky promise!” It was so hard to tell with her when he was being deliberately condescended to. She hooked her finger with his, and they shook three times, “And now it’s official!”

“So it is,” Akira said, taking his hand back and tucking it in a pocket. He wouldn’t _technically_ be breaking this promise. It was just that Kamoshida would make the point moot by the time they were done with him.

In the meantime, they had to figure out how to get Ann free. Shirley seized her wrist and dragged her from the council chamber, freshly energized to right wrongs. On the other hand, Ann went rag doll limp, giving Akira one last look of ‘this isn’t how we planned this!’

And it wasn’t. At all. But they could improvise. The last time Ryuji had texted, he wasn’t even in the Settlement yet - so time was an issue, but not necessarily a big one.

Milly was the next to depart - some kind of family meeting she was running late too. It left just Akira, Lelouch, and the ticking clock. Of them, the clock was the only one that said anything for a while: Lelouch was content to inspect his nails through half-lidded eyes. _He_ didn’t have anywhere to be.

Then, apropos of nothing, he asked, “So what do you _actually_ think of all this?”

The question came as a surprise - but Lelouch had a way of surprising him. He tried to keep it from his face, “More or less what I said. I’ve barely said two words to Kamoshida- _sensei_.”

Lelouch waved that off as a triviality, “But you said them around _Ann_. And anyone with eyes can see through his act with _her_.”

“Fair,” Akira said, leaning over the back of Milly’s chair, “The guy’s a creep.”

“But that much is obvious - and it’s not what I was asking,” Lelouch locked eyes with him, and Akira gulped. Something in his gaze looked like he _knew_ , but he couldn’t, right? “What do you think of these ‘Phantom Thieves?’”

What _would_ Akira have thought of them, divorced from the bias of being one? “I think…” he started, then stopped. Lelouch gave him a small encouraging smile, and he said, “… I think enough people who say they’re trying to help make things better turn out to just be phantoms - people more interested in looking good than doing good. At least these guys come out and say it.”

“And if they do turn out to really exist, their anonymity makes them more genuine champions of the weak,” Lelouch finished - more or less exactly as Akira would have. He let out a breath that could pass for a laugh, “Well said.”

Turnabout was fair play, “What about you? Assuming they’re real.”

Lelouch gave the question the same weight that he had. Some of the protective papa inside Akira swelled with pride at that. Whatever he said to the rest of the council, here - when it was just the two of them - Lelouch could take the Thieves seriously.

“I think… I’m jealous of them,” he finally said. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Stealing distorted desires, making people confess their sins… they make it sound magical.”

“Magical is another word for impossible.”

“I’m not so sure. They _sound_ like they found what we talked about - a way to change the world.” Akira swallowed spit. He’d considered that possibility. But wasn’t it too much to ask? Too lofty a goal to drag the others into? “I wonder if they know what they have.”

“You…” Akira wet his lip, treading carefully, “You sound like you believe.”

Lelouch shrugged, “Maybe. Maybe I _want_ to believe that someone can find their way to that power.”

Akira had been here before. When Ann and Ryuji had seen Arsène for the first time, something had lit up within them. Someone else had managed to become something more than what the world said that they could be - and that meant _they_ could too. It had lit a fire of hope in their hearts, and that had been fanned into strength of their own.

This was the same. Lelouch hadn’t even seen what the power he wanted _was_ , but he knew that he wanted it.

All at once, Akira wanted to tell him everything. Kamoshida’s true nature, the Metaverse, persona - all of it. He’d found his way. He could show Lelouch _his_ , and together, they could make a better world.

The words were on his lips.

“Lelouch…”

And then they weren’t.

“Are you a Phantom Thief?”

He startled a laugh out of him, at least. It sounded hollow, “No, Akira. If I were…” he closed his eyes, shook his head, “I suppose I don’t know _what_ I’d do.”

Maybe one day they could find out. But not today.

Today, they had a specific plan already in motion. They couldn’t afford _any_ changes. He’d promised Ann and Morgana he wouldn’t be so impulsive. Even if he hadn’t, a new partner wasn’t something you could spring on the team at the last second.

Besides. What did he _really_ know about Lelouch Lamperouge? They’d had all of one conversation together before now - and even that had been cut short. Then, as now, he seemed almost a wholly different person than the blithely disinterested act he put on in front of others. Wasn’t that suspicious? Shouldn’t Akira have worried that whenever they were alone together, this Britannian kid suddenly got _really interested_ in what he thought about the way of the world?

No matter how much Akira had needed them on his first day, a couple of kind words weren’t the same as some deeply held longing for justice. Acknowledging that there was evil in the world wasn’t the same as being ready to do something about it.

Even so.

‘Can’t change the world,’ Akira had said.

‘Wouldn’t you, though?’ Lelouch had asked.

That was where they’d both started this week. Akira had been so elated when _he_ had awoken from that powerlessness to strength. Denying Lelouch the same felt wrong.

He would make it right. For now, he only smiled, “I can think of a few things.”

“Oh?” Lelouch prompted, his tone suddenly light, “Your parole officer’s _that_ bad then?”

Akira seized the invitation to talk about something else. Thankfully, they were able to segue from his probation into even safer topics. He told Lelouch some of what he’d missed for classes he’d skipped. Lelouch in turn clued Akira in on what he’d been skipping them _for_ , and tried to explain how chess worked without a board.

It was nice. A little normalcy before battle - even the others couldn’t _really_ offer that.

It could only last so long. “You guys must be done by now, right?” Morgana strode into the room like he owned it, looking this way and that, “No Ryuji yet, huh?” He looked at Lelouch, his back arching in surprise, “And what’s _he_ doing here!?”

For now, he was staring in quiet surprise at Morgana. Arching an eyebrow, he asked, “Yours?”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m some kind of pet - least of all his! If anything, he’s _mine_!”

Akira gave an embarrassed smile, “Unfortunately yes. Don’t listen to him, he’s been fed.”

“All cats are liars,” Lelouch mused.

“Look who’s talking - Lady Ann warned me about you, guy.” She had? Morgana hopped up onto the table, “I ran into her, by the way - she should be joining us shortly.”

“Morgana, can it _wait_?” Akira snapped like you would at an overly insistent cat. When he was sure Lelouch was looking the other way, he also mouthed, ‘sorry.’ Better not to hurt team dynamics at this stage.

It took some of the heat out of Morgana’s voice when he hissed, “What, am I interrupting your time with your _boyfriend_?” Not all of it, though. Akira made a face at him, and as best as his features could in this form, Morgana made it right back. Clearly they were square.

Oblivious to Akira’s powers struggle with his cat, Lelouch checked his phone, saying, “I’d better be heading out. I promised Nunnally I’d take her out for ice cream later today.”

That was a relief: Akira hadn’t been sure how they were going to get rid of Lelouch before heading into the palace. Nunnally to the rescue, “Tell her I said hey.”

“Tell her yourself,” Lelouch said. He looked airily out the window, “You must be dying to get off campus for a bit. Come hang out.”

Morgana gasped, “Wait are you two _really_ …?”

Akira laughed nervously, “I… uh… wasn’t lying when I said I have stuff I have to do today.” There, that was even true.

“Suit yourself,” Lelouch said with the ease of someone who’d never known true _restrictions_ on what he could and couldn’t do. He stretched, heading from the room with a lazy wave, “I’ll see you around, then.”

What to make of all that? Another wholesome heart to heart between two like-minded, dissatisfied youths? Or something more sinister?

A part of Akira fully expected Lelouch to turn around as he left, give him one last knowing smirk because _he’d_ already figured him out.

But he didn’t. Because he hadn’t.

Akira still wasn’t comfortable talking shop until he’d checked down both ends of the hall leading into the council chambers. The coast was clear. They were alone. He still gave it a moment - a gut feeling told him he’d need to.

Morgana cocked his head to the side, “Someone’s antsy. Did we get in your head _that much_ yesterday?”

“It’s not that,” Akira murmured, though he wasn’t sure he’d fully be able to explain what it _was_. He breathed, and his nerves calmed a little. Arsène seemed to rumble a little in his chest when he said, “You were saying something about Panther?”

“Just that Lady Ann should be able to catch up soon,” Morgana said, “Send her a text - it doesn’t matter what. She’s gonna say it’s from her agency.”

Thus giving her an excuse to leave in the middle of Shirley’s big case _and_ an alibi that was safely off campus. Perfect. Pulling out his phone to do just that, Akira smiled as he saw the last text in the groupchat. Ryuji had beat him to the punch. And it was a haymaker.

‘takamaki ann my muse is singing. meet me so i can take some pics gurl. all hail britannia, i.m.a. realagent.’

He showed Morgana, and the cat sighed, “I mean… she _did_ say _anything_.”

“Should be fine, as long as Shirley didn’t look at her phone,” Akira agreed. Though in the privacy of the chat, he instead said, ‘Brilliant work, Ryuji.’

Then he and Morgana settled in for the wait - it was, as always, the hardest part. Even when the odds stacked against you in the palace seemed insurmountable, there was always a move you could be making to get past them. All they could do _now_ was sit around until they were all in one place. Retreading plans and contingencies was the best they could manage.

“So the angel cognition,” Morgana said, though maybe “What do you think our odds are of running into that thing again?”

“How should I know? You’re the one who said it’ll be fine,” Akira replied, holding up a hand before the cat could leap down his throat for that, “And _I’m_ not the one with the insider knowledge of the Metaverse. But here’s what I _do_ know: we never ran into Clovis until V11 Day. That’s a holiday _specifically_ about when Britannia conquered Japan.” He took a second for Morgana to puzzle that together. When the cat nodded, he went on, “Kamoshida’s cognition of himself… you tell me.”

“Uh, is the biggest egomaniac in the world?” Morgana said sharply, “You don’t need ‘insider knowledge’ to figure that out.”

“Right. _Except_ for when he was talking to the cognitive Clovis.” Akira steepled his fingers, “Clovis is living evidence that Kamoshida isn’t a king. There’s someone far, far above him - someone with so much power, they might as well be a god compared to him. But like a god, they’re distant. Kamoshida can pretend they’re not there. Except…?”

“Except for on a day that’s all about flaunting their power over him,” Morgana chewed on that for a few moments, begrudgingly deciding he liked the taste, “That’s what I thought. We just picked a bad day.”

“Maybe even a bad _hour_. Clovis wasn’t there when we first showed up - maybe we started the infiltration just in time for the real Kamoshida to catch his speech.”

The cat grimaced, “I wonder if that’s really enough time for something in the real world to manifest in a palace.”

“It should be.” With a nervous chuckle, Akira said, “I mean, we’re kinda banking _today_ on that.”

“No kidding.” Morgana visibly weighed whether to say at all what he said next, “But what do we do if we’re wrong? What if we _do_ run into the cognitive Clovis again?”

He _knew_ there wasn’t a real answer to that, but he asked anyway. The best Akira and Ryuji had managed was a hasty retreat, and they’d _still_ almost died. If they ran into Clovis again, they might not be so lucky.

“He got bored last time,” Akira said. Morgana scoffed, and he shrugged indignantly, “I know, but he _did_. We just laid low for long enough, and he eventually left us alone.”

The cat made a low noise, “That… still leaves a lot to chance. It doesn’t inspire confidence.”

And that was fair, “I know.”

“I wish…” Morgana sighed, “This stays here.”

“Of course.”

“I wish you guys had taken one more day. _Yes_ he’s a slime ball, and _yes_ the world is probably better off if we stop him now as opposed to tomorrow. But I think we should’ve done just a little more recon, and been _sure_ we had our way in instead of _hoping_ we did,” he licked his paw, rubbing it furiously at his face. It was a great excuse not to look at Akira, “But hey, that’s just _my_ point of view.”

“I get it,” Akira said quietly. He let out another nervous laugh, “Well… we can’t take it back now, right?”

Morgana returned it in kind, “Nope. Guess we’ll just have be as good as we we are.”

“We’ve had pretty good luck so far.” Yeah, they kept getting into tangles, but they also kept squirming their way out of them. Assuming Clovis didn’t show, their odds didn’t look half bad, no matter how nervous the cat was.

This was a good plan. Never mind that if you looked at it too long, pieces of it that were haphazardly hobbled together started to show. Akira could only see those because he had this moment to obsess over them, but no time left to do anything about them. In the thick of things, those cracks wouldn’t matter and the plan would hold.

“We’ve got this,” he murmured.

“Yeah we do!” Akira and Morgana both jumped a little as Ryuji swaggered into the room, tossing his uniform cap to the side as he did. Akira had the sudden thought of the star player going into his championship game. To look at Ryuji there was nothing to be nervous about: the only thing they were waiting for was another victory. All the ways this might go wrong, all the consequences for failure - to him, they might as well not have existed.

He offered Akira his fist, and Akira bumped it accordingly, “‘sup?”

“I hear somebody sent Kamoshida- _sensei_ some kind of threat,” he said, completely straight-faced, “Something about stealing his heart?”

Ryuji’s whistle was decidedly less so, “Wooow, crazy. We should look out for them in the palace!” He dropped the act, plopping down into what had been Lelouch’s table and kicking his feet up, “So do we got anything else to do before then, or are we just waitin’ for Ann?”

“We’re as ready as we’re going to be,” Morgana said. Akira assumed he was just projecting, imagining the hint of a quaver in the statement. It was completely gone when he sniped, “Just sit tight - _try_ not to blow our cover before we go in.”

It was the damnedest thing: the way Ryuji scratched his head looked so much like flipping deuces. Morgana hummed discontentedly, but otherwise didn’t escalate further. He didn’t try discussing the plan any more, though.

Ryuji inspected the council’s copy of the calling card, grinning from ear to ear, “Man, I’da given my left nut t’ see the look on his face when he got it.”

Akira smiled lightly, trying to pair Ryuji’s exuberant confidence with something a little more reserved. He had to play it cool, pretend that butterflies _weren’t_ steadily multiplying in his stomach, “If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t there for it either. Kamoshida already has it in his head that one of us has it out for the other, figured it was better not to give him ideas.”

“Makes sense,” Ryuji said, though he seemed more focused on the card. He stared at it like he was trying to etch every detail of it into his mind. Who could blame him? That was his ticket to… justice? Revenge? Maybe it depended on his mood.

Akira crossed his arms, talking as much to keep from thinking as anything else, “Besides. _We_ get to see his face when it all comes crashing down.”

“Hopefully not,” Morgana said, “If he sees us steal the treasure, something’s gone wrong.” Louder, slower, he said, “You hear that, Ryuji? We’re not trying fight fight him. If we end up in a fight with Kamoshida, that’s _bad_. Understand?”

Ryuji only blinked at this blatant show of disrespect. He slung an arm over the back of his chair, his voice just starting to get testy, “Hearin’ you loud and clear, furball.”

“It bears repeating, though.” Really? Just a no sell on ‘furball?’ “We’re _not_. Starting. A fight.”

This was starting to stray a little too far away from gentle ribbing. _That_ was simply a fact of life for working with the cat. You learned to just bite back. It created an odd sort of peace. Still. Akira looked at the ceiling, “I actually have some thoughts on that.” Morgana gave him a suspicious look, and he grinned, “I mean, yeah, we obviously don’t want to get stuck in a fight we can’t win. We all know that.” He tried not to put _too_ much emphasis on that. Let Morgana figure it out on his own, “But don’t you kinda want him to know it was us?”

Ryuji grunted agreement, “Maybe we could scare up some spray paint? Leave him with like a giant version of the logo where his treasure used to be?”

Akira laughed. That wasn’t half bad - or wouldn’t be if there was more time to get paint together. And if the logo wasn’t a little lame, “I was thinking something even simpler.”

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Morgana groused, “When you’re not thinking or when you _are_.”

Shrugging to concede the point, Akira nonetheless spread his hands to frame the scene he had in mind, “Picture it though. It’s dark. The guards are after us - they know that we have the treasure, and they’re _trying_ to stop us, but we’re always one jump ahead of them. They can’t keep up: all they ever get is a brief glimpse at our back or a blur as we round the corner.” If Morgana could’ve crossed his arms, he would’ve. He settled for an irritated glare, while Ryuji’s eyes just _sparkled_ with the vision.

So he kept at it, “We slow to a stop. But it’s like at the top of the outer wall or something. So they know what’s coming next. Kamoshida pushes to the front of the mob, just as powerless to stop us as anyone else. We turn, give him one last smirk: ‘see ya.’ Then we disappear over the wall, and we’re ghosts.”

Ryuji shot out of his seat, “Dude, but we should totally do that! We gotta make that happen!!!”

“That has to be the…” Morgana sighed, “I… will admit that there’s a certain flair to it. But no way. Like… not unless it comes up.”

Which, obviously it wouldn’t. Akira tried to convey that without saying anything and ruining Ryuji’s hype. Anything he said seemed to make one happy and piss the other off. Going forward, balancing the two of them was going to be tricky.

That was assuming there _was_ a ‘going forward’ after today. Which Akira knew he shouldn’t.

Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait much longer for Ann. If they had, Akira and Ryuji might’ve refined their daydream exit into something they _had_ to do. Ryuji had just been suggesting him or Ann catching Kamoshida’s hair on fire when she slipped into the chamber, closing the door behind her.

Akira nodded her way, “You made it.”

“I did,” she agreed, making a face at Ryuji, “You. _You_ almost made me crack up in front of Shirley.”

“You’re welcome?”

Ann opened her mouth to give him what for. Something about him must’ve not looked worth it, because she faltered, just rolling her eyes. Akira asked, “How was being her Watson?”

“More or less the same as being Sherlock was,” she said with a sigh, “Her first thought was to question the volleyball team, too.”

“Is that gonna be a problem?” Ryuji asked, suddenly serious, “‘Cause, like, you were already askin’ around. So they’d be like…” he brought his voice up into a nasal whine, “‘Nyeh, why’re you still askin’ about Kamoshida- _sensei_ , nyeh!’ And Shirley’ll be all, ‘Wait, you were already investigatin’ him?’” He shrugged, “And then like, you look suspicious.”

Morgana whistled, “That’s actually pretty astute.”

Ann grimaced, “I mean… luckily we didn’t get a chance to run into anyone _I_ asked. We’ll be done by the time I see her again, so… if she asks me anything, I’ll say I was doing it because Shiho said something?”

Akira nodded, “That makes sense. If you play up that you didn’t find anything, she’ll think you gave up, and that takes suspicion off of you.”

“But _that’s_ thinking way too far ahead,” Ann said, “Was there anything we needed to meet about before getting started? Because I’m ready if you all are.”

Ryuji pumped his fist, his voice just starting to turn feral, “Was hopin’ you’d say that.”

Morgana stretched low and long, “Everybody be on your game. We only get one shot to do this.”

Showtime, then. A whirlwind of butterflies kicked up in Akira’s stomach, and he hoped it didn’t show up on his face as he opened up the app, “Let’s do it.”

The world slowly melted away, and the Metaverse rose to replace it. They emerged in the same safe room they’d started in yesterday. If you were just looking around, it didn’t seem like much had changed. The tapestry Ryuji had torn down had righted itself in the interim: Kamoshida was once again waving a sword around on the march to another victory. With an annoyed grunt, Ryuji tore it down again.

Ann considered it, giving Akira a curious look, “Do we think the palace fixes itself after we come in?”

Maybe. Or it just had diligent staff. Akira shrugged, heading for the door, “One way to find out.”

As he was reaching for the handle, the butterflies in his stomach danced one last time. Then the door opened, and they vanished.

His heart was still racing - but now that they were in the thick of it, any shadow of a doubt that they could win vanished.

“No way out but forward now,” he murmured. Stepping out into the hallway, he tossed his coattails behind him so they wouldn’t get in his way when they broke out into a run. Joker spared one last grin at his team, “Alright, Phantom Thieves. Let’s take his heart.”

**August 11, 2017 A.T.B. - Ryuji**

So far, Ryuji had been stopped three times today by people who weren’t convinced he belonged wherever he was going.

The first had been on his way to school. He’d happened to run into Mishima, and had stopped to thank him for switching shifts with him. That had turned into shooting the shit about work, and apparently they were just a little bit too close together and a little bit too quiet, because it spooked a patrol. So Ryuji and Mishima had both submitted to a pat down that didn’t _have_ to take long enough to make them a little late, but still _did_.

Whatever.

The second, he’d been coming _from_ school, heading in to work. They’d reached the checkpoint where the ghetto turned into the Settlement, and the soldier searching their bags had looked twice at Ryuji. This time, his crime was looking a little too pleased with himself. Y’know. _Smiling_. Why was he doing _that_ while he was going in to clean Britannian kids’ toilets? So he’d submitted to step outside, go through _another_ stupid pointless search, and get his picture taken so they could waste their own time later seeing that he didn’t have any criminal record. Well, not one worth sniffing around.

Whatever.

The third, he’d been at the back of the pack. Akira was leading the way, Ann and Morgana racing after him. A shadow guard lumbered after them, and Ryuji took a second to wait for it to catch up. It had begun to twitch like it was going to transform, drawing its sword as it demanded what business Ryuji had with King Kamoshida.

So Ryuji and Kidd had punched it through a door in a spray of sparks and timber.

Fuck. Yeah.

It wasn’t _all_ cutting loose and kicking ass. He only stopped for a few seconds to admire his handiwork, but it was enough that Morgana got petulant, “Skull! Don’t waste time on small fries!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryuji called back. He squatted, pointing at the broken pile that, honestly, probably didn’t include a living guard anymore, and growled, “And you tell ‘em the Phantom Thieves’re back in town.”

Catching up to the others didn’t take long. The way forward was this weird mix of starts and stops. For a while they’d race down empty hallways, then Akira would hold up a fist and they’d all hug a wall until he gave them the okay to go ahead. That happened more often than yesterday: now there were more shadows on higher alert. It seemed like a good sign, proof that the calling card had worked. It was an even better sign that now, trying their hardest, there were still cracks in their guard to slip through.

And better still: sometimes, there was no way around a set of guards. A lone shadow would stand vigil over a cramped hallway, or a pair would round a corner just as they did. Those times, Akira would abandon subtlety, leaping onto their backs and tearing their masks off. Then the whole team would put them on blast.

 _Those_ were the moments Ryuji was living for. Sneaking around unseen was fun and all, but what good was a trap you never sprung? The shadows all thought that they had control. That as long as they kept their guard up, they could stop the intruders. Proving them wrong, over and over again, was a thrill Ryuji would never get over.

They came to the outer wall, running alongside it. It was a wide arc from their destination, but also was the clearest path - the one that Morgana and Ann had puzzled out yesterday. In the distance, the tower where the treasure was hidden seemed to pulse away.

Or maybe that was coming from Ryuji’s own chest, or his mind, or both. Being able to see it - having success so clearly in view was surreal. Victory wasn’t just a distant dream anymore, something they could build to. It was right there. Soon it would be over.

Ryuji hoped he could capture every instant before it was.

Up ahead, Ann had stopped short, calling out to the others. Ryuji jogged to a stop, “Panther, what’s up? Why’re we stopping?”

She held a finger to her lips, pointing to the other side of the wall. Ryuji looked, and his breath caught in his throat.

Honestly, yesterday he’d almost forgotten about the army of mini knightmares that surrounded the palace. They just stood outside ineffectually - for most of the infiltration, Ryuji hadn’t even seen them. Now, though, Ann whispered, “They’re moving.”

Not much. But enough. Where before, they’d stood mostly solid and rigid, now they lifted their spears, knocking them into the ground in a steady rhythm. _Thump thump_. Then a second would pass. _Thump thump_.

There were so many of them. Thousands, maybe millions, stretching out over the horizon. Their spears rumbled in perfect unison, a single, massive unit.

“They sound like…” Morgana, perched on a parapet, shook his head, “They sound like they’re getting ready to march.”

Fuck. Ryuji looked Akira’s way, breathing, “What do we think, Joker? Should we, uh… worry about that?” Like, what would they even do if they had to fight a cognition of what felt like all the Britannians in the world?

Akira crossed his arms, taking a moment to run the numbers in his head, “I think… I think we’ll be fine.” He sounded unsure, or maybe he was just still a little awed. The army thundered away as he explained, “I don’t think they’re coming for us.”

After a second, Ann let out a low whistle. Ryuji couldn’t see why: he looked at the cat, but it just shrugged its own confusion. Akira went on, “At least we know the calling card worked.”

Okay, that was officially enough mystery, “Uh… why?”

Akira jerked a thumb outward, “Because _they’re_ waiting for us to take the treasure.”

“They know the end is coming,” Ann said, “They’re not protecting Kamoshida’s castle: they’re _sieging_ it.”

The implications popped and clicked into place, and Ryuji could only look out at the army again. _That_ was how Kamoshida saw the world outside of Ashford? An endless swathe of enemies, waiting for him to fail so they could pick his bones clean?

No matter what kind of twisted paradise you built for yourself within the walls, what kind of way was that to live?

Ryuji refused to call what he was feeling pity. Kamoshida didn’t _deserve_ that. But looking out at that mob, he felt _something_.

For all that Britannia had raised him up, it was stunning to see how quickly it would drop him. _That much_ wasn’t a distortion of Kamoshida’s mind, that was just fact. Eleven or Honorary Britannian, you toed the line or you fell.

And that sucked, obviously. Only Kamoshida _deserved_ to fall.

Ryuji glanced at the others: they all stared out, running the same numbers he had. He put some pep into his voice, tried to get them out of their heads and fired up again, “I mean, serves him right, right?”

“Definitely,” Ann said immediately. Even if the others had _wanted_ to argue the point, her resolve would never let them.

“Then what’re we doin’?” he leaned on the parapet, flashing a grin, “Our public’s waitin’.”

And the Phantom Thieves kept them waiting for just a moment longer. Cool: let ‘em squirm. Only Ryuji was liable to join them in a minute.

Then Akira stepped back from the wall, rolling an arm in its socket, “Skull, take point with me. I feel like breaking something.”

And the leash came off. Ryuji cheered, and they pressed on - for now, through the guards instead of around them. Sometimes, he didn’t even hear the anticipatory hammering of the crowd below. The force of his own heart drowned it out.

**August 11, 2017 A.T.B. - Ann**

Thankfully, it didn’t take too long for Akira and Ryuji to get their little boy rampage out of their systems. There had been a second, back on the wall, where Ann had regretted showing them the change in the cognitive soldiers. She should’ve known it would work them up - and once they were, that was how they started getting sloppy. And _that_ was always what got the team into trouble.

They must’ve realized that too, because they dialed it back before they’d even reached the tower. For what felt like a mile, progress slowed to a crawl as the guards got thicker. It never stopped, though. Even through Akira and Morgana’s whispered instructions, they were always moving forward.

Coming to the tower was like getting shot out of a cannon. The stairway had been so crowded yesterday, ascending it was a bloodbath. Today there was no one - maybe whatever guards had been stationed there had been drawn away by the earlier carnage. So that worked out.

Ann could never say that, though. It’d go directly to Akira’s head.

Not that Ann was much better right now: she had this lightheaded feeling, as if she were floating a foot above the ground. If Kamoshida really had left the throne room unguarded, then it was just a straight shot to the treasure now. This was it. This was where they beat him.

And that knowledge transformed everything about the palace that had previously made her stomach turn into a triumph. The curling tentacles seemed to wither and die as they pressed on. The wall girls sang for joy: finally they would be avenged.

The stairs gave out: they had arrived. With a screaming battlecry, Ryuji plowed through the door.

The room was as they left it. Kamoshida hadn’t even bothered to close the massive marble door, and so their eyes went immediately to the treasure.

It left Ann - left all of them - breathless. there it was. Their finish line.

Just as they’d hoped, sending the calling card really had materialized the treasure into something real. Hovering in midair, it had taken the form of a crown: solid gold, as tall as any of them and wide enough that they could all fit inside. Glittering gems coated the arms that bent over its velvet center, culminating in a heart shaped. More hearts, these ones cut from rubies, lined its band. The whole thing sparkled in the light of the rear windows: impossibly beautiful yet impossibly tacky.

Ryuji was the first one to break the silence, “That’s gotta be it, right?”

“ _Of course_ that’s it,” Morgana was so in awe, he could barely manage to be believably snotty. Then he stopped trying to even pretend to keep his cool, bouncing toward the treasure like someone had stuck springs in him, “We did it - a real, live treasure! Look at it, it’s _gorgeous_!!!”

“I’m surprised it looks like this,” Akira commented, his hands finding his pockets again now that they’d made it to safety, “If it’s supposed to be the manifestation of Kamoshida’s desires, I almost thought it’d be hissing and biting.” Ann had personally been betting on something slimy and writhing.

Morgana stopped outright jumping up and down, but there was still a skip in his step on his last few steps up. He stopped suddenly, brushing the top of his mask like he was slicking his hair back, “Oh hello. It must be fate, the two of us meeting like this.” He gasped to himself, “What? You want me to steal you?”

Rather than take that in, Ann glanced back at Akira, suggesting, “He probably doesn’t think his desires are disgusting. I mean, he wouldn’t right?”

“True,” he conceded, “And I guess it makes sense for it to look like this: what makes a king a king?”

“ _Treasure_!”

“Yo, more importantly,” Ryuji said, jerking his thumb up at the crown (which Morgana was now dancing merrily upon, a dazed look on his face), “How the hell’re we gettin’ that thing out of here? Also, I think the cat’s broken again.”

Morgana didn’t so much as _speak_ as make a series of meow-like gurgles, rubbing his face against the heart at the treasure’s top. It shouldn’t have been so strange, because, like, he was a cat. But he’d spent so long as just a regular member of the team, outside of his looks. And he was normally so sensitive about his humanity.

Ann might honestly have been less weirded out if Akira or Ryuji were the one acting like this.

She cleared her throat, sharply calling out, “Mona!”

He started, recognition dawning in his eyes. Ann gave him a wordless, pointed look, and he slid down from the crown. It was a little surprising he didn’t just melt in a puddle of humiliation, “You will… you will all have to forgive my indiscretion. In front of a lady, no less - Panther, I’m so-”

“My girlish sensibilities remain unruffled,” she said dryly, ignoring his his embarrassed murmurings. She took a few steps up the dais to the treasure. Rainbows of light shimmered in her face as she got close. It was easy to get drawn into - though maybe not as much as Morgana had. Ann tore her eyes away, looking back at the team, “I mean, I guess we’re gonna just all have to carry it, right?”

Ryuji groaned, “But there’s like a _million_ stairs!”

What? “You can’t be serious.”

More sagely than the situation deserved, Akira added, “ _Spiral_ stairs at that.”

“Holy shit, you’re _serious_.”

“Look, why don’t we just roll it down?” Ryuji said a moment before Ann could let them both have it for being lazy about _this_ of all things, “Like it’ll probably get busted up, but what do we care what it looks like?”

Morgana hissed, subconsciously taking a wider stance to protect the crown, “Uh, because we’re phantom thieves and we take pride in our work? Why kind of lame thief lets their treasure fall down the stairs?”

“We’re not doing that,” Ann said, pointing a warning finger at Akira, “Even if our _leader_ says otherwise.”

“I said nothing.”

“Keep it up.” She focused on Ryuji - tried to do more than just threaten him. Because even if that was a stupid, _stupid_ idea, it wasn’t _just_ him being lazy. He _thought_ it was a good idea - he must’ve: Ryuji was as invested in today as she was, “We said we’re gonna do this right. That means _all_ _of it_.”

And honestly? If this were the real world, she might’ve gone for the idea.

But here? What if Kamoshida’s forces got to it once it reached the bottom before they could? What if the crown broke - literally, _what_ would that mean? There were too many variables they knew nothing about to do something so careless.

Ann hoped that Ryuji saw that. That when he put his hands up in surrender, it wasn’t just because _she’d_ said so, “Alright, alright. I’ll take the front…”

That didn’t quite satisfy her. But there’d be time to explain herself when they were done, back in the real world. For now, Ann gave him a grateful nod. She wished she could identify the sound he made in response.

But now that they were on what passed for the same page, the team could work out the logistics of smuggling the crown out of here. They agreed that Morgana shouldn’t be one of the ones carrying it. Akira _said_ that it was because his body might complicate weight distribution, but privately, Ann was more concerned with what might happen if Mona lost himself in the treasure’s glow again. After a little maneuvering (the stairway up to the throne was thinner than the crown’s diameter), the three fully human Phantom Thieves each had footing they could grab the brim of it from.

On three, they lifted. A split second after her hand touched the metal, Ann wondered if this could be a trap. She braced herself, but there was nothing.

As it turned out, the treasure was a lot heavier than it looked, which didn’t seem fair. Just a second ago it had been floating away without any problems, _now_ suddenly Ann’s arms were wobbling under its weight?

Maybe it was a cognitive thing: to Kamoshida, his sins were light as a feather. To someone _sane_ , they were almost too much to bear.

They took each of the narrow dais steps carefully, setting the crown down for a second when they reached the bottom. It clanked decisively against the floor. Ann _must_ have imagined it sparkling a little brighter, as if it were mocking them.

Akira sighed, scratching the back of his head, “This is… a lot less glamorous than I’d hoped.”

“For real,” Ryuji panted. He let out a cry of protest as the crown hummed, slowly hovering back into the air. He flipped it deuces, glanced at Ann, shrugged, “Looks like it wouldn’t roll anyway.”

“You guys should take a pill if you’re already tired,” Morgana said. Which was easy for _him_ to say. But he didn’t seem to actually be taking a cheap shot this time: that was genuine concern in his voice, “We’ve got a long way to go.”

“Give me a sec,” Ryuji said. He rolled his arms, cracked his neck - honestly, he just made a bit too much of a show of getting ready, “Alright. We’re gonna all try this again, and we’re gonna click our heels and say, ‘this isn’t gonna be heavy.’ Ready?”

That wasn’t a bad idea. But Ann couldn’t really focus in on it: in the moment’s break, she’d spared a brief glance around the throne room, and it had nearly stopped her heart.

Had there _always_ been a balcony over the doorway out? It wasn’t much of one, just a little theater box - maybe for audiences with the king on his throne.

And had it always been full to bursting?

“Guys,” she breathed. They followed her gaze, jumping back into more alert stances.

A sea of cognitions were crammed into the space. More girls with volleyballs for heads posed like pinup models. Others in nuns’ habits were splayed about the banister, tittering among themselves. At their center, the cognitive Ann- _chan_ sprawled over the edge. When her eyes met Ann’s, she winked, waggling her fingers in greeting. To think Ann had dared to hope she’d incinerated her when she’d awoken to Carmen.

For a small relief, it didn’t look like any shadow guards had found their way up there. But the cognitions all had to filter in from somewhere: who could say what was behind them?

When they knew they had the thieves’ eyes on them, the girls all came to sudden attention. All except for the false Ann, who only yawned. She drawled along as they cheered in unison, “Go, go! Let’s go! Ka-mo-shida!”

Their arms shot out to complete the salute, and something flew from the the balcony with it. It caught the light for just a moment, and Ann squinted to see it. Maybe some kind of bird - or a shadow?

Oh. Shit.

It was a volleyball.

The crowd scarcely had room to part, but even if some of the girls had to clamber up onto the edges of the box. They cheered and squealed, and _he_ came hurtling through them. The cognitive Ann smirked, rolling from the balcony’s edge to her knees before him, and King Kamoshida leapt from the balcony.

His cape flowed behind him, exposing Kamoshida in all his so-called glory as he soared through the air. Something about the light behind his throne must have caught him: he seemed to glisten as much as his treasure. It was like time had slowed for him - but _stopped_ for everything else. He flowed toward the volleyball, eyes outstretched, golden eyes mad with glee.

Time caught up, resumed its normal flow. He struck the volleyball, and the volleyball struck the ground. Maybe something else happened between the two, and Ann had just blinked and missed it.

The ground shook where it had landed - no, _splintered_. Ann and the others leapt back to avoid shockwaves of marble flooring spiking up around them.

Which cleared Kamoshida to land beside the treasure. He held out a hand, and it shrank to a more manageable size. Something he could wear. Rather than doing so, he turned to face the thieves, his grin manic and toothy, “So. Phantom Thieves, right? This what you’re after?”

Before they could respond, cheers erupted from his theater box of groupies.

“That was _awesome_ , King Kamoshida!”

“King Kamoshida, you’re _incredible_!”

“We love you, King Kamoshida!!!”

He chuckled, giving them a light salute and a wink that set off _more_ screeching, “And I love _you_.” He returned his focus to the thieves, tossing the crown to himself absently. Ann missed the terror she’d seen in his eyes before. This cold, calculating desperation was a poor substitute, “And _that’s_ why I won’t let anyone take this from me.” He gripped it so tightly, Ann wondered if it might just shatter and save them all the trouble, “It is the key to my kingdom - a symbol of my divine right to rule!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake - you’re a _gym teacher_!” Ryuji spat. Lightning already sparked about his clenched fists - if he didn’t call him, maybe Kidd would just burst forth on his own, “Actually, fuck that - you’re just a pervert old man!”

“‘Just a pervert old man?’” Kamoshida repeated, cocking his head to the side, “What’s that shit dribbling from your mouth, monkey? You’re talking to the closest thing my Ashford has to a heart and soul!”

Ann let out a breath and it burned. She tried to rein it in: he was trying to get under their skins. He had to be: he _was_ , “Tell that to Shiho, you…!” Words failed her. There were none with enough bite.

Kamoshida took her meaning, though. That didn’t mean that it came _close_ to fazing him, “I’m sorry, who?”

Actually, to hell with playing it safe. And forget about sparing him. Ann screamed, “ _Carmen_!!!” and the two of them flung wave after wave of fire at Kamoshida. He held out the crown, as if it would protect him. Ann stared into the flames as they whipped tears from her eyes one moment and evaporated them the next. She’d worry about the consequences when only ashes remained.

But when the fire died down, there were his eyes, two glowing beacons in the smoke, “Oh, that’s right! Suzui- _chan_! The incredible jumping slave girl!”

Somewhere in the smoke, there was a war cry, a spark. Metal clanged on metal. And it didn’t quiet Kamoshida for a moment, “Yes, I think I _vaguely_ remember her. But you have to understand… I’m already looking into a possible replacement.”

Ann snarled, low and primal, in the back of her throat. From a few feet away, Morgana called out, “Panther! _We do this right_!” He called on Zorro, and wind whipped the smoke away. Kidd and Ryuji each had a hand on one end of his pipe, pressing it into Kamoshida’s crown. _He_ was completely untouched - the crown really _had_ protected him.

It was _still_ protecting him. Kamoshida struck Ryuji’s weapon, and with a flash and a pop like a fire cracker, the blow sent him flying into the wall. Ryuji didn’t stay down long: he shot back to his feet and charged, swinging wildly. Each time, Kidd would appear, firing his cannon into the pipe as if to infuse it with his energy. And each time, Kamoshida would smack it away just as easily.

The worst part was the _monologuing_ , “You want to blame someone? Blame all the people pretending they don’t see. Britannia wants its share of my glory. The brats in the school want an easy language course, or to pad their resume with an olympic hero. I have something they want, and they crowned me king to get it.” He ducked under another of Ryuji’s strikes, striding toward his adoring subjects, arms spread wide, “Don’t you see? There’s nothing for you to expose. I’ve _always_ had an audience. One willing to hide any skeletons I please!”

“Anything for you, King Kamoshida!”

“We’re all yours, King Kamoshida!”

“Hey, _King Kamoshida_!” a pair of cognitive nuns shrieked as they were pushed overboard, and Akira swooped from the balcony, dagger glinting, “You missed one!”

There was a split second where Kamoshida hissed in surprise, and in that moment, Ann’s whip seemed to move like it had a mind of its own. It snaked round and round his arm, and she pulled it taut just before he could have blocked. His other hand reached out to defend himself, but all he succeeded in doing was putting his palm in the path of the blade. It punched right through. Smoke hissed from the wound: shadows, it seemed, did not bleed. Kamoshida still hissed, face contorting in pain.

Akira grinned - and was it Ann’s imagination, or was it just a little too wide for his face? “Like that, Kamoshida- _sensei_? There’s so much more coming.” Black wings unfolded behind him, claws beginning to poke through into reality.

Kamoshida let out an anguished groan, his head twisting this way and that. He gagged, gagged again. For a moment, Ann was certain he was about to throw up on Akira, and she was _almost_ right: he reared his head back and spit up a wet, purple three feet of tongue. It cracked like a whip against Akira’s face, and he fell back, his dagger still embedded in Kamoshida’s hand.

That didn’t last long. With a grunt just this side of a moan, he pulled the weapon free, tossing it aside. His tongue continued to flow from his mouth, lengthening and darkening to the color of a bruise, twitching like a living thing. There was a second, deeper, croaking voice under his own now, “Don’t you idiots _get it_? You are looking at a _king_! You should be getting on your knees and thanking me for even _noticing_ your sad little lives!”

“Some king!” Ryuji shouted. He swung for the back of Kamoshida’s head - this time, it was that horrible tongue that caught his pipe. With a roar, Kidd sent a jolt of electricity through Ryuji into the shadow. They both spasmed for a moment, until they disentangled, “You sold your soul, and _this_ is all you’ve got t’ show for it! You’re _pathetic_!”

“I… I can’t believe I was ever afraid of you,” Ann said, barely believing the words coming out of her mouth. What an absurd thing to say. When he’d been a naked clown playing at being a king, Kamoshida had terrified her. Now he was finally turning into as much of a monster physically as he was in spirit - and all she could do was laugh, “Everything… this whole castle, your entire little _world_ \- it all just comes from _hiding_. Anyone you can’t hide from, you have to trick into thinking they can’t do anything to stop you.” She let out another hiccup of a giggle, relishing the anger that flashed in his eyes, “And I _fell_ for it. For a year, I ducked my head and pretended ignoring you was the best I could do.”

Around his bulbous tongue, Kamoshida hissed and wheezed - was he just having trouble breathing? He croaked out, “I will not tolerate this dissent.” Ann shrugged. He’d have to. Bending in on himself, he said, “Three long years - that’s how long I gave up my _dignity_ to get where I am. That’s the one rule of the world: when you’re not on top, you lay down and _take it_ until _you’re_ the one doing the fucking. _You all_ are the abominations - you think you can just waltz in and take my god given right? I served my time. I did my part. And now,” the treasure flashed - it had lost so much of its luster: it had more of a ruddy shine now, and what had been sparkles looked so much more like haze. It was as if the very nature of it was being polluted by its master. Still he held it on high, “I. Am. A. _KING_!!!”

Kamoshida brought the crown down on his head with a squishing, wet slam. Instantly, he was engulfed in red and black - it looked like when his guards would transform. The pool of ichor was too wide: it spread throughout the throne room, contaminating every corner - surely it couldn’t birth just one creature?

Flesh slopped itself together, trying desperately to find shape. Ann let loose with a few bursts of flame, but to no avail. The charred tissue hissed and popped, but reformed, twisting into its new shape - its _true_ shape. It spoke, “And a king can do whatever he wants!!!”

**August 11, 2017 A.T.B. - Joker**

Slowly, the sludge that had engulfed Kamoshida sloughed off his new form, hissing and sputtering into nothing as it hit the ground. The massive _thing_ that remained was grotesque as it was absurd - Joker found himself wanting to laugh and to vomit in equal measure.

Two bulging gold balls sat at the creature’s back: they must’ve been holding it up, it didn’t seem sturdy enough to sit up on its own. A rigid, throbbing back to this makeshift throne grew from them, ending in a twitching mushroom head. Thick iron chains extended from throughout the mass. The collars at the end rattled impotently - they _almost_ made the overall effect suggest a ball and chain more than anything else.

The creature itself was no less revolting. Its skin was pink, almost translucent, as if it hadn’t fully formed. In some places, it stretched thin over the creature’s skeleton or over the muscles of it’s four thin, too-short arms. In others it hung loose, drooping from its sides to pool where it sat like a cushion. Each of its hands curled around something - a golden knife and fork longer than Joker was tall, a whip with spikes lining its length, a sloshing glass of what was hopefully just wine.

Its head was elongated and malformed, but somehow still recognizably Kamoshida. Maybe it was the shape of the drooping nose between its bulging bug eyes, maybe it was just the quaff of hair two goat’s horns curved over.

The creature seemed to have so little control over its body, as if it were newborn. Its head lolled this way and that, its eyes rolled independently of one another. Only its massive tongue - unchanged from his previous form except in size - seemed to have any rhyme or reason to its movement, swaying back and forth almost hypnotically, dripping over a golden trophy with a heart engraved into it.

There was so much going on with this thing. If Joker tried to burn every detail into his mind, what would happen first? Would Kamoshida destroy him, or would he simply go mad?

Joker forced his eyes upward: nothing else about the shadow mattered. But that crown perched between the creature’s horns: that was still their prize. No matter how disgusting Kamoshida looked now, his treasure still glittered temptingly.

Kamoshida threw his head back, let out a long roar that Joker _felt_. He and the others dug their heels in, and it _still_ felt like he was going to push them back. Then the creature called out in its bullfrog voice, “Girls! Get your fine asses over here!”

And they just _poured_ from the theater box, leaping below with giggles and chirping, fawning praise. The ground rumbled with this stampede of nuns and volleyball girls.

They would’ve been trampled if not for Mona. He cried out, “Everyone huddle close!”

It snapped them out of whatever trance Kamoshida’s transformation had put them under, and they scrambled together. Zorro roared into existence above them, his hands outstretched to whip up a protective storm around the phantom thieves.

Through the winds, they could see how little Kamoshida’s cognitions cared about that: they simply ran around the maelstrom. Some slipped collars around their necks, stroking lovingly at Kamoshida’s legs and feet as the chains pulled them in. Others dove headfirst into the trophy. Those ones spasmed, their habits melting away and their bodies turning a pale violet. Enough of them chose this fate that all you could see where their dangling legs kicking from the trophy.

Kamoshida’s body sounded like squeaking leather as he stretched out the arm with the wine glass over the Phantom Thieves. He croaked out, “You too, cocktease!”

The cognitive Ann yawned, stretching her arms over her head, her chest pushing out against her habit. Some low sound reverberated throughout the room. It must’ve come from Kamoshida: she held up her hands, “Fine, fine.” Daintily, she stepped over the glass’s rim, gasping as she sank into its contents. Joker could feel Panther tensing at his side.

Kamoshida gave an almost orgasmic shudder, “There we are. That’s better.” He let out another, stone tumbling from the ceiling as he did, “No, that’s perfect! That’s how my Ashford _should_ be!”

Zorro’s winds began to die down, and the monster returned to focus. Mona gulped, “Alright team. How do we fight that?”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Skull punched into his hand. The step he took toward Kamoshida almost disguised the nerves in his voice, “We smack it around ’til it stops movin’.”

Panther nodded, taking point behind him, “All that’s changed is now he matches his heart.” Skull panted what would pass for a laugh.

Marble splintered as Kamoshida’s whip suddenly cracked against the ground, “Girls! Your king is tired of listening to that self-righteous bullshit! Silence them!!!”

“Yes, My Lord!” They called it out as one, leaping as high as their chains would allow. Kamoshida’s shoulders and chest bulged, volleyballs bursting from the flesh like burrowing insects. Together, Kamoshida’s slaves spiked, and the barrage began.

Joker half expected the balls to turn to meteors - or to catch fire, or to maybe turn into other shadows as they hit the ground. But no, they were seriously just volleyballs. And yes, they _hurt_ when they were spiked right into you. But honestly, the indignity of it hurt more.

To get here, they’d been fighting monsters and demons. They’d faced down an angel and lived to tell the tale. And now, at the end of things, this gigantic flailing baby was going to throw _balls_ at them!?

Skull had fallen on his ass when a lucky shot caught him in the chest, but that was the worst any of them had gotten. He was back on his feet a moment later, laughing hysterically, “Okay so we’re fine, right? This guy’s a pushover.”

They might’ve been. _If_ that was the best he could do.

Joker was going to be so disappointed if that were the case. He flicked his wrist, and Arsène did the same to bat one of the last of the volleyballs away. It bounced a couple times, echoing in the chamber, “Seriously, big guy. You’re gonna have to do better than _that_.”

Suddenly, Kamoshida’s eyes stopped rolling. They focused on Joker, and what passed for cheeks on that skeletal pink face raised in a mocking grin, “I think that was _more_ than enough to deal with you all!”

A retort was right on Joker’s lips, but he never got a chance to say it: because that was the moment that the ground gave out under him.

He was only falling for a moment. It wasn’t so much that the entire floor had fallen away as just _enough_. The edge was close enough that Joker could still, even surprised and frantic, grasp the ledge.

Mona hadn’t been so lucky: he was on the stairway below now, looking as shocked as Joker felt. The old adage had remained true: he’d at least landed on his feet.

Something gave a threatening crunch in the stone Joker had caught. The tower itself was crumbling, the first two stairs above Mona already collapsing into the darkness below. Dim light filtered into the throne room from new cracks in the roof. It blended jarringly with what shone from the stained glass behind Kamoshida.

There was _no way_ just a couple of leather balls had done that.

But clearly there _was_. So they would all have to finish this before another volley brought the whole tower down.

Flipping back into the chamber, Joker was relieved to see Skull and Panther already setting to work. Skull dueled with Kamoshida’s knife hand, lead clanging against gold. Further back, Panther covered him with bursts of fire. Low, croaking laughter echoed around the whole struggle.

Joker grit his teeth: Kamoshida was just trying to get in their heads, to get them to doubt themselves and hesitate. He had no idea what he was up against: Joker’s team no longer knew the meaning of the word.

So he couldn’t let himself get shown up: ducking low, he rushed past the volleyball girls. He called on Arsène, but that proved unnecessary: Kamoshida’s servants merely stood idle as he passed, posing luridly but otherwise harmless.

That made sense. Britannians without orders so often had no idea what to do with themselves.

All the better. It meant Arsène's claws could strike the blow with him when he drove his knife into Kamoshida’s side. It sank in easily, like stabbing a sponge, and Kamoshida let out a warbling shriek of pain.

There was no time to relish in that, though. Instinct and a sharp tug on his shoulder pulled Joker back just in time to see golden tines piercing the floor, rather than feel them. Kamoshida didn’t let up, stabbing again and again, scraping his fork into the stone. Joker’s heart hammered a little harder every time the weapon came down, but it was easy enough to dodge.

And it meant Kamoshida’s focus was on him - freeing up the others. Panther was the first to rush him, Carmen lighting a fire under her that launched her, burning, into the shadow’s face. As he screamed in protest, his tongue lashed out at her falling form - just in time for Kidd to drop a bolt of lightning on the appendage. It thrashed involuntarily and wildly, and Panther was safely back out of harm’s way before he could get control over it.

By now, his cries were as much annoyance as they were pain. That wasn’t good enough, but it was a start. They could wear him down.

Furiously brushing soot from his eyes, Kamoshida screeched, “What do I keep you all around for?! Somebody kill these fuckers!” He punctuated it with a stab of his fork into the cup. Slowly, he pulled out one of the still kicking cognitions inside it, his tongue gingerly wrapping around it and forcing it past his jaws. Humming to himself, he said, “Daddy needs a snack before he can do it himself.”

Panther retched - fair enough. More concerning, though, was how Kamoshida seemed to _glow_ as he consumed the cognition. And how the holes Arsène and Joker had stabbed into him seemed to close up as he did. Maybe even worse: once he ate one, another pair of legs started rising up to take its place.

There was no time to _immediately_ worry about that. There was another ineffective wave of spikes to dance around. It wouldn’t have been anything to worry about if the tower wasn’t already groaning under every step they all took.

As the first of the balls struck, something above them ground against something else - both sounded heavy. They were running out of time. Joker glanced to the others, ducking past a falling piece of ceiling, “Target the cup, we-”

“Ten steps ahead of you!” Mona’s return was as triumphant as his exit had been ignominious. Not that any of them saw it. There was a blur, streaking from one pile of rubble to another to another, and then there he was, sword already swung like they were in some awful samurai flick.

Joker would have let him have it if only it wasn’t so effective: the trophy shattered, and Kamoshida let out a horrified wail.

“You stupid fucking…” his eyes drifted briefly over Mona, confusion registering for only a moment before self pity took over, “Cat-thing! Do you even know what you just smashed? That was a certified piece of Kamoshida History right there!”

“Like I _care_ ,” Mona spat, hands going to his hips, “What kind of gentleman would I be if I just let you-” he yelped in surprise as Kamoshida banged his knife and fork on the ground. He came close to skewering the cat the first couple times. But long after Mona had ducked out of his reach, he kept smacking the weapons into the ground. All this was was a tantrum.

And his screeching fit it perfectly, “My trophy! My precious trophy from when I won the National!” Some of his careless blows came down on the closest of his own cognitive protectors, who burst in puffs of smoke and ash, “Can’t you sluts do anything except stand around!? Kill these assholes! _Especially_ that furball!”

The remaining volley girls tried: they swarmed Mona, lashing out with knives and claws (lord knew where they got either). They’d picked the worst thief to try that on: he dodged adeptly between the blows, shifting just out of the range of their chains and between strikes like it was nothing. Over his shoulder, he called, “A little help here!?!”

Skull was on it. He yanked the cat backwards, the team regrouping just out of range of the volley girls. Panting slightly as he set Mona down, he said, “Okay. He’s not _that_ much of a pushover. Anyone got an idea?”

Joker’s grip tightened on his knife, “I want that crown.”

“Cool. Anyone got an idea that’ll-”

“I _want_ that crown!” Joker repeated, louder.

“Fuck what _you_ want!” Kamoshida shrieked, “How do you still not get that everything in this castle is _mine_!? Everything, every _one_! Whatever shit’s out _there_ , in here it’s _my world_! _My_ crown, _my_ rules, _my_ world!!!”

As he slammed each of his sets of fists into the floor, the tower shook ever more precariously. Joker glanced at the team - he hoped not _too_ smugly, “So that’s something.”

“It is if you want to bring the whole tower down on our heads!” Mona shrieked. He shook his head, “But you’re right. He just gave away… I dunno. Something. The treasure _has_ to be the source of his power - he never seemed like he could take a form like that before.”

“He would’ve just crushed us earlier,” Panther added, “Before things came to this.”

“King Kamoshida!” waist deep in red, the cognitive Ann put her hands on the rim of the wine glass, “Why’re you letting them get in your head? Don’t you see they’re planning-”

“Oh, _shut up_!” abruptly, Kamoshida overturned the glass above his mouth, sending the cognition tumbling shrieking down his throat. He swallowed. Tossing the glass to shatter somewhere off to the side, he belched, “Can’t fucking _think_ with that whore bleating in my ears.” His eyes started spinning, jaw twitching so wildly it was a wonder he didn’t just bite off his tongue, “There we _fuckin’_ go, that’s the- that’s the ticket! I know what to do now!”

Slowly, wobbling as he did, Kamoshida started to lurch to his feet. Joker tensed, “Mona. We get the treasure away from him, we force him back to normal?”

“Maybe?” Mona gulped. Words poured from him like water from a sieve, “It might just weaken him enough that we can actually beat him or-”

“Yes or no, Mona!?” On legs that shouldn’t have been able to stand, Kamoshida soared. He was a perfect parody of an olympian: his spiking form would be perfect, if he weren’t such an unstable mass of half-formed flesh.

With one last _crunch_ , a piece of ceiling broke away. It was maybe a mote smaller than a knightmare frame, and spherical enough for Kamoshida’s purposes: two of his arms came down on it at once. Mona screamed, “Yes!”

Without a moment of his own to spare for a thought, Joker shouted, “Skull!”

Then rock and fire came hurtling down toward them like the end of the world. Arsène burst forth, wrapping the lot of them in his wings. It deadened most of the shock - or it must’ve: surely they’d be dead otherwise?

And then they were all falling.

Floors and floors of stairs that had felt like they’d taken an eternity to climb fell away in moments. Buffeted by winds and stone in equal measure, Joker could only judge what was going on by Kamoshida’s cackling laughter. It didn’t fade - he was falling with them.

Joker hoped someone had the foresight to try and break their fall. A sudden, sharp pain in his back told him none of them had. He groaned. Pixie fluttered above him frantically, her dust soothing enough that he could bear to open his eyes.

The tower was mostly gone, down to the top of the outer wall. Maybe three floors worth of stones were left still stacked on top of one another, but not such that you’d recognize the building they’d been a part of anymore. The veins that had grasped the structure remained, outlining the skeleton of what it had once been, still pulsing away. Panther’s whip was wrapped around one. She dangled from it, either dazed or out cold but too far to tell one way or the other.

Mona flopped down a moment later, bouncing off the ground with a yelp like some kind of deflated ball. Joker refused to think of it as a volleyball. He never wanted to think about volleyball again.

No sign of Skull.

 _Why_ had he put it on Skull?

Because his name was the shortest?

Because he needed one more shot at revenge?

Because he kept calling Joker ‘leader?’

Pixie poked at his cheek. As if he needed a reminder that he was going to die if he held still. Kamoshida sat a few feet away. A few pieces of loosed stonework tumbled harmlessly off his head - one went into his waiting mouth as he threw back his head and laughed, “A king!? Fuck that, I’m a _god_! I have the power to create and destroy - maybe if you get on your knees beg for mercy, I’ll give you all a quick, painless death!”

Joker groaned, pulling himself to his feet. Once he was up, it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as the anticipation of feeling the fall had. Something flashed above them. He didn’t dare look, or Kamoshida might too. Brushing some dirt off his face, he forced a grin, “Gonna be honest. I’ve _tried_ life on my knees. It’s not for me.”

Panther dropped down beside him. Thank god, there was no way he had enough gas in the tank to bluff his way through this on his own now. Carmen flared into being - he hoped he was only imagining her flickering, “I said I was gonna stop you, Kamoshida. I don’t care if we have to tear down every brick of this place, I _will_.”

Kamoshida just laughed. And why not? If it came down to a slugfest, he was the only one who seemed untouched by the fall. If this world shattered under them again, it would be on _his_ terms.

Unless, that is, lightning struck.

Out of the corner of his eye, Joker could see Captain Kidd and Skull. The latter was in free fall, the former sailing through the air beside him. When they were finally close enough, Skull’s persona grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and swung. With a rapturous whoop, Skull mimicked the action, sparks flying as pipe met crown.

It was falling - _flying_. Kamoshida screamed, screeched, flailed for it. It clattered to the rubble below, shrinking back down enough for a person, not a monster, to wear. Mona pounced on it - his eyes too triumphant to simply have been transfixed by its glow again.

It was hard to tell, but Kamoshida was paling. Arsène chuckled darkly in Joker’s ear, and he felt Carmen’s heat on his back. The rest was a blur of spinning knives and sparks of red and blue. By the time he returned to himself, the monstrous Kamoshida’s head was bowed low, his tongue lolling uselessly, his eyes dim.

From his neck, gasping for breath, burst the shadow they’d encountered so often before today. His own eyes were glazed, fearful, his miniature crown lopsided.

Pulling himself from the dissipating corpse of his other form, he tried to scramble past the other thieves, back to Mona and his crown. Skull smirked, stuck out a foot into his path. Kamoshida went sprawling. Some king.

Breathing heavily, Kamoshida pulled himself up on the parapet, leaning on the wall for support. All the contempt, all the ego, all the _strength_ had melted away from his face. All that was left was all there had ever been: one weak man, terrified of the legions he’d surrounded himself with.

There was something cold, something unfamiliar in Panther’s voice as she stepped toward him, “What? You don’t want to fight anymore? Don’t you want your crown back?”

“Please…” and _that_ was desperation. It was beautiful. Kamoshida’s voice lowered, “Please, just… just give it back. You don’t understand: I’m… I’m the only one that they _see_.” He nodded to himself, letting out a hiccuping, terrified laugh, “Yeah. These kids - the students - half of them have never even _seen_ an Eleven. _I’m_ the only glimpse they’ve gotten of _our_ world. Without _me_ , we’re all monkeys and monsters to them!”

Skull spat, “Huh. That so? I thought you _weren’t_ an Eleven anymore. That you… what was it?” He sneered, “‘Earned your place among them?’”

Kamoshida shook his head, looking to each of the Phantom Thieves in turn. His eyes practically shone with his delusions, “You all _know_ that’s not something we can really do! They might want our achievements, our accomplishments, and they might be willing to give us some _privileges_ in exchange for saying that we’re _theirs_. But they _always_ see us as different - _less_!” He put one hand on his chest, and gesturing with the other out to the Britannian army, he stammered, “But _here_ , at Ashford, I can show them otherwise! We can be the same as them, and if I can make their _kids_ see that, then maybe one day…!”

He trailed off, let them draw their own conclusions. Panther snorted - just a tiny little giggle at first. Then she threw back her head and erupted into peals of laughter, “Oh! I see. So you’re some kind of cultural emissary between Britannia and Japan. Of course!”

Then Panther cut off, surging forward before any of them knew what was happening. Her fist curled around the clasp of Kamoshida’s cape, and he dangled off the wall’s edge. Heat rose from her body, made the air around her sizzle. It grew hot enough that Kamoshida’s scrabbling hands, desperate to find something that would connect him back to solid ground, still recoiled when they found her. She screamed, “Then what do you call what you did to Shiho!?”

The best answer Kamoshida could give were a few choked gasps, his feet kicking impotently at the long drop under him. It was more than a little pathetic to watch. This was exactly where they’d all wanted him - at their mercy, and them with none left to give.

The only trouble was, they’d talked about what they’d do when they got to this moment.

Panther had said before that she might’ve changed her mind. Maybe she really had.

But he still had to step in. Joker cleared his throat, saying conversationally, “We’re off script.”

“I don’t _care_!” Panther snapped, not even looking back. Her hand shook, “This… this _monster_ practically pushed her out of that tower himself! I should…”

She trailed off - still unwilling to say what she thought she should do. If Panther couldn’t _say_ it, she definitely shouldn’t _do_ it. She’d regret it for the rest of her life.

Maybe she could live with that.

Joker didn’t even know if _he_ would be able to. Maybe he could.

“So what will you do?” Mona put on a brave front, crossing his arms. But there was a waver in his voice, “It’s your call, Panther.”

“Please!” Kamoshida found his voice, even if only a whimper of it, “Please! You don’t have to do this - you can be better than me, you can _forgive_ -”

Skull laughed. It was only a little nervous, “Wow. We’re gonna talk about _forgiveness_ now?”

Panther hissed, “I’ve seen every inch of this palace - you’ll say anything to save your own skin. Everything you’ve done out there, everything I’ve seen in here… I will _never_ forgive you for it!”

Recognition flashed in Kamoshida’s eyes, and all at once he stopped struggling. He just hung there, limp in Ann’s grip. Quietly, he said, “Fine then. I got to be on top for a while… it was a good run.”

For a moment, all there was was the sound of the wind and the steady _thump_ of the army at the walls. Then Panther let out another roar, and Joker thought for sure this time she was going to drop him.

In a way, she did: with Carmen’s might guiding her, she tossed Kamoshida back onto the wall. He cried out, pulling himself to his knees as she glared down at him, “You think,” Panther growled, hopping down from the parapet, “After _everything_ that you deserve my pity?”

“Not really.” He actually smiled - those had to be crocodile tears in the corners of his eyes, “You all know what it’s like out there. I climbed as high as I could, and I looked around and everyone was still _above_ me. So I did the only thing I could…” Kamoshida looked down at his shaking hands. Maybe he was starting to see, “I took it out on those below.”

“Oh boo-friggin’-hoo!” Skull shouted. He was trying for callous, but something in his voice couldn’t quite find it. He must’ve heard it too: he gave the wall a frustrated kick, growling, “World sucks, no shit. Y’don’t gotta make it _worse_.”

Kamoshida took a moment to consider that. He took a deep breath, let it out. Something must’ve changed when he did: all at once, the rumble below was silent. A single chorus rose to replace it: “All hail Britannia!”

“It’s over,” Kamoshida said. Millions of footsteps marching in lockstep confirmed it. That same ocean of cognitive Britannians that had stretched beyond the horizon was now converging on the palace. Already, Joker could hear as drawbridges were forced open, feel the ground shaking with the coming storm. Letting out a bitter breath through his nose, Kamoshida said, “They only want a winner: now I’ve lost. Where do I… what am I supposed to do now…?”

Once the truth of what he was got out, the Britannian world that had so long enabled Kamoshida was going to eat him alive.

It was exactly what he deserved, and he had _not_ earned even the most contemptuous of pity.

And yet…

Joker sighed. He looked at the sky: it was easier than focusing on Kamoshida, “Atone?” A line of flaming stones streaked across the night sky. They were gifts from below, aimed deeper into the castle and too far away to be too much of a danger. From this distance, they looked like shooting stars. Joker said, more sure, “It doesn’t _matter_ who accepts you after this. You still have to find a way to live with what you’ve done.”

He felt Kamoshida’s eyes on him, mustered the will to meet his gaze. It was like looking at a lost child - one that Joker realized with a start that he could see through. The shadow faded more and more, shimmering slightly as he did, “Alright. Then… then I should go - and return to my true self.”

There was one last flash of light, and Kamoshida was gone entirely.

A part of it felt hollow. Panther was right: there was nothing that Kamoshida could do now that would ever erase what he’d done. And repentance was all well and good. But something dark in the back of his mind couldn’t help but wonder what good that would do the victims.

He looked at Panther and Skull. The quiet rage in her eyes was beginning to finally die down. The determination in his was beginning to ignite again.

No one said anything. If his words were enough for _them_ , then they were enough.

And they were _more_ than enough for Mona. The cat beamed up at him, “Well said, Joker.” Only wobbling slightly, he carried the crown over to him, holding it up as high as he could. Joker took it before he could think otherwise. It was surprisingly light now.

He tossed it to himself a couple of times, hoping the casual action might disguise how much he felt the weight of what had just happened. Opening his mouth to speak, Joker instead let out a shocked gasp as the wall rumbled under him. Had it been hit?

It didn’t seem like it: it just kept shaking. Skull stumbled, pulling himself back up with a grunting, “The fuck’s even…?”

Panther steadied herself against the parapets, “An earthquake!?”

Mona was the only who seemed unaffected. He stood calmly, licking a paw to straighten out his mask, “No. I thought this might happen!” Still conversational, he broke out into a jog, “We all need to get going: this whole place is going to come down!”

Sure enough, one of the castle’s distant keeps collapsed in an unceremonious heap. The three human Phantom Thieves must’ve spent a moment too long gaping at that, because Mona called out, “No seriously! Let’s get going!”

And they did, following the path they’d taken in. The palace’s self-destruction wasn’t far behind. Absurdly, it was like it was _chasing_ them. The wall began to crumble apart as soon as they started to race along it.

Kamoshida’s cognition of the school may have been breaking down around them, but the invading army paid it no mind. Their rallying cry went up again as they met with whatever remained of the shadow guards. Shouts and screams and the clatter of swords joined the cacophony of ruination all around them.

Joker knew they weren’t real and that he should pay them no mind. But running for his life while soldiers called out “All hail Britannia!” did not feel like a win.

By the time the Thieves ducked back into the library, the path behind them was rubble.

In there, the already cluttered space dominoed into itself, the sounds of crunching and tearing almost deafening. Joker’s heart nearly stopped when he saw a chandelier plummet: this place was liable to be a tinder box when it _wasn’t_ falling apart.

Over the chaos, Panther shouted, “Mona, what the fuck!? Why’s this happening!?”

“Well… think about it!” Mona took a brief pause to yelp as a glass case practically leapt onto him. Scurrying up more rubble ahead (and taking _no_ account of the fact that not everyone was as small or agile as him, he called out, “We’re taking his distorted desires from him - and this palace is a manifestation of those desires! So you tell me, guys! What happens to something when it gets stolen!?”

“It… falls apart!?” Skull shouted, “If we’re gonna die anyway, you make sense!!!”

Mona groaned - way, way too relaxed for the circumstances, “Don’t be such an idiot! When you _steal_ something, it’s not _there_ anymore! We stole the source of the palace, so…!?”

Joker would _not_ give him the satisfaction of finishing the thought, “Thanks for the head’s up, Mona!!!”

“Well…!” Mona yelped. Maybe he would’ve had a follow up, but none of them ever got to find out. Something clattered from his direction, and when Joker looked, the cat was gone. This was profoundly not the time for a fight, they could all barely keep track of each other.

“Still alive!?” Joker called out.

There was exactly long enough a delay that he started to worry. Then Mona popped back up on top of a bookcase that was only _threatening_ to fall over. He ran on all fours with little concern for the fact that humans didn’t do that, “I’m good. Focus on getting back to the safe room!”

It served as a truce. As the library gave way to the initial, checkerboard tiled entrance hall they’d first come into, Joker only spared a glance to the overflowing soldiers in white below. They raised their swords on high, continuing to mindlessly chant. Some had lit a fire at the base of the portrait of Kamoshida. Even as it curled and blackened, its subject looked triumphantly out toward a victory that would never come.

As soon as the safe room was in sight, Joker fished for his phone. It was something of a miracle that it had survived the fight, the fall, and the escape. Questioning the universe’s kindness was always a good way to lose it.

They passed through the threshold. His thumb smashed the Metanav’s icon just as the disintegration of the palace caught up to them. They were falling again.

**August 11, 2017 A.T.B. - Morgana**

They were out. Finally. Thank goodness.

Morgana had never been so happy to be a cat again.

He also had never been quite so exhausted in his life. Life or death adrenaline had finally run dry. Jumping back onto the table almost seemed like too much effort - but he’d be damned if these kids were gonna look down on him.

The Ashford student council room was as they’d left it, just a few shades darker as the sun set. Time in the Metaverse always seemed to vacillate between seconds that stretched on for days and moments that ended between blinks. You could never really tell how long you’d been in until you were back out.

If the sun in the real world was to be trusted, they’d actually made pretty good time. Which was lucky: people would notice if Morgana’s team was missing for too long.

He cleared his throat, looking over the others. They all looked as exhausted as he felt, “Okay. Head count?”

Akira flopped back down into his seat with a sigh. In turn, he pointed to the others, “Panther. Skull.” He gestured to Morgana, “Cat.”

Morgana imagined setting his jaw in annoyance. His tail flicked instead, “And dumbass makes four.”

“Hey.”

“So did we do it?” Ryuji shifted from one foot to the other. By his wild eyes, the rush hadn’t quite ended for him yet. A slower mind would take longer to realize it was safe, “We get him?”

From the floor, Akira’s phone chipperly called out, “The destination has been deleted.”

Rather than get up, the boy leaned back at an angle that couldn’t have been comfortable to pick the device back up, muttering, “Must’ve dropped in during the jump.” He held it in front of him, tapping away, brows knitted. Ryuji and Lady Ann crowded in to look over his shoulders. Morgana tried to cross his arms. He didn’t have any, so his stupid body decided to arch his back a little instead. The others didn’t pay him any mind: Akira’s face lit up, “The palace isn’t showing up.”

Lady Ann gave him a nervous smile, “Does that mean…?”

Akira smirked, “I think we just won.”

And all at once, they found their energy again. Ryuji practically exploded back from the trio, fists stretched skyward and letting out a long whoop. Lady Ann didn’t seem to know whether relief was going to make her laugh or cry. She settled for both, jumping up with a cry of, “ _Yatta_!”

Akira shot up as well, one foot on the desk, one planted on the table, and one finger pointing up. Shit eating grin or no, that moron was going to fall and Morgana was not going to feel bad about it, “Everyone, let me just say-!”

“Hey!” Morgana shouted. Better to stop him there before his ego carried them all somewhere they’d _all_ be embarrassed of, “That’s all well and good, but the treasure?”

Akira blinked, still holding his ridiculous victory pose. With what sounded like genuine surprise, he asked, “We… we get to keep the crown?”

Seriously? “Okay, I really didn’t think I’d have to explain to you how _stealing_ works. When you take something, who has it? Take your time.”

That earned him a glare of varying intensity from each of them. Morgana straightened, made a point of brushing his face with his paw. If they said dumb things, he was going to treat them like they were dumb.

And if Akira had managed to somehow _lose_ the treasure between the worlds, Morgana didn’t know what he was going to do to him.

There was certainly no sign of a crown: there wouldn’t be. The Metaverse was purely representative: no matter what the object of Kamoshida’s distorted desires was in the real world, the other world would make it look like something that fit the palace’s general theme.

But Morgana had fully expected _something_ to be sparkling in Akira’s hand, and so far he was thoroughly disappointed.

Disappointment flirted with outright anger as the boy nervously checked his uniform pockets - and then there was that grin again. For a split second, Morgana was about to tell him to stop being so cocky. Then his mind stopped working for a moment as something bright and gold and so wonderfully _shiny_ flashed into the air. A medal! A solid gold medal. It was just about the size of his cat body’s head, with a thin blue ribbon. It was just perfect: images flashed in Morgana’s mind of Lady Ann draping the it over his shoulders, proclaiming him the greatest thief in all the land. Crowds cheered, the masses applauded!

Someone cooed. With horror, Morgana realized that it was _him_.

At least the others were too preoccupied to notice - and not _nearly_ as in awe as they should’ve been! Ryuji made some kind of confused squawk, even as Lady Ann swiped the treasure from Akira’s hand. Inspecting it, she said, “It’s… a medal now?” She turned it over, “I mean, an olympic medal, but that’s still not…”

Morgana had to get control of himself. His shameful display in the throne room had been enough. This was no big deal. He was the big thief on campus, this kind of treasure was a dime a dozen. He forced some breeze into his voice, “ _That’s_ the source of Kamoshida’s desires. To him, that medal’s worth what that crown was worth to his shadow.”

Ryuji huffed. Reality must’ve been sinking back in: he stuffed his hands into his pockets and furrowed his brow, “An olympic medal?” He paused just long enough that Morgana was worried he’d have to explain what a medal was, “So what, he just couldn’t let go of the past?”

“That makes sense,” Akira took a few careful steps back down, rubbing a temple, “He thinks - thought, I guess - that he was an Honorary Britannian because once upon a time he was _special_.”

“And so _now_ , he deserves to take whatever he wants from all of us _ordinary_ people,” Lady Ann muttered. She made a disgusted sound, tossing the medal on the table, by where the calling card had landed.

Akira stared down at it for a few moments. Then he asked, “That’s… supposed to be in the gym display case, right? Where’re we gonna hide it…?”

He’d been so good at this in the palace. Morgana would chalk this up to exhaustion, “This isn’t the same as its real equivalent. _This_ is a real world manifestation of his figurative desires. It just looks the same because it has to be something tangible here. So the Metaverse shifts it to match the object that the desires were born from.”

Ryuji blew a raspberry. Morgana wished his features were mobile enough to make a face at him. Of course _he_ didn’t get it. Akira adjusted his glasses, “… is the gold real?”

“What am I, an appraiser?”

“You’re supposed to be some master thief. Don’t you have a _guy_?”

The frustrated exclamation Morgana wanted came out as a hiss, “Even if I _do_ , it’s not like I’d _remember_ it!” Especially not now. Taking Kamoshida’s treasure and destroying his palace was a small gamble.

Judging by everything they’d seen, Morgana had probably miscalculated before. Whatever had taken away his memories, it wasn’t likely to be a gym teacher with an inflated ego.

But if it _had been_ , Morgana supposed the secrets of his past would have to stay buried now.

It was so unlikely, but the thought made his tail twitch nonetheless.

The others didn’t notice - they must’ve thought he was just agitated with Akira’s obstinance. Good. The less he had to think about his body and his memories, the better.

“I guess we should hold onto it?” Akira asked, “We find out if it’s real, and… I dunno, if it is, we make a quick buck?”

Lady Ann gave him a surprised look, “‘Making a quick buck’ doesn’t feel like why we did this.”

He shrugged, “It’s not.” There was just the slightest glint of Joker in his eyes, “But y’know. I think we can treat ourselves to a reward.”

Lady Ann considered the medal. Her lips quirked upward, “I mean, I wouldn’t say no. Assuming the change of heart works…”

“Which it will,” Morgana put in, “Probably.”

“Probably,” she repeated. There was just the slightest shroud of doubt over her voice, and Morgana wished he could lift it. Glancing at the others, she asked, “So what do we do with it in the meantime?”

“Is that a real question? You hold onto it, obviously,” Ryuji said, “I’d never even get it into Shinjuku.”

Akira nodded, crossing his arms, “And I’ve got people keeping an eye on me. It’ll look suspicious if I suddenly come into some money.”

Grimacing, Lady Ann asked, “What, and it won’t if _I_ do?”

For some reason, the others hesitated to answer that. Which made absolutely _no_ sense: she really was the clear choice here, “Lady Ann, you have a certain refinement and class that the boys are sorely lacking. No one’ll bat an eye if _you_ have something valuable.”

They all glanced at him - one of those annoying ‘poor Morgana, he doesn’t remember obvious things’ looks. It was all the more irritating because for the life of him, Morgana didn’t get what he was supposed to be missing here.

Even more confusing: Akira gave him a lopsided smile, “Yeah, actually, that’s basically it.”

So he was right. But also he wasn’t right. What the hell.

 _He_ had no idea what to think, but it apparently had clicked for Lady Ann. She sighed, “Fine. That makes sense.”

Why was this making things so awkward and heavy for all of them? They gave _him_ so much grief whenever something new in the Metaverse came up, why was it okay for them to leave him in the dark?

Morgana cleared his throat, fully prepared to let them all have it. But instead, and with just as much authority in his voice, he said, “Hey! I don’t know what you’re all moping about. We just won - the least we can do is be happy about it!”

“Morgana’s right,” Lady Ann said, retrieving the medal, “I’ll see what we can get for this.”

She had the determination that she wore so naturally in the Metaverse on her face - it was adorable. Even celebrating was a duty to take seriously for Lady Ann. The team really didn’t deserve her.

“Take your time,” Akira gave Ryuji a light nod, “We’ll figure out logistics for meeting up later.”

His sigh was a little too ragged and dramatic to be genuine, “Man, the celebration’s supposed to be the fun part - we gotta run logistics for _it_ too?”

Akira considered that, twisting his lips. He looked at Morgana, “Do you think we can just meet up in the Metaverse?”

 _Finally_. Something he could effectively weigh in on, “I wouldn’t. Without a palace to set the general feel for an area, we’d basically be open to everything the cognitive world has to offer. Stay in one place too long, and there’s no telling what kind of shadows might wander in on us.” Faintly, he remembered the sounds of rattling chains, and they sent a shiver up his spine, “Yeah, no, that wouldn’t be ideal. Why not just throw the party here?” He looked about at the council chamber. It was more than spacious enough for the four of them.

“Cat, you know I’m here for _work_ , right?” Ryuji asked. The bite to his question was completely unnecessary.

Before Morgana could give it right back, though, Akira cut in with, “We’ll figure something out.” If he hadn’t been miffed to have his thunder stolen, Morgana might’ve commended him for saving his teammate like that. As it was, he didn’t like that condescending patience in Akira’s eyes, “And I’ll give _you_ a crash course on the way the world works.”

How dare he. The one good thing about this body was that even when Morgana flushed, no one could tell. He muttered, “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” Akira said lightly, his hands going to his hips. He looked at the others, “I don’t think we’re getting anything planned tonight.”

“And we should wait and see if the change of heart works before we go celebrating anything,” Lady Ann added, as if Morgana hadn’t just reassured her it would.

He nodded, “Right. Another reason to give it a couple days. Why don’t we get some rest, see what happens next, and make our next move accordingly.” It was straightforward, simple, and unfortunately, passive. The others would never be excited about a plan like that. Neither would Morgana, for that matter. In the movies, they cut right from a victorious explosion to relieved denouement. Living through the fade in between was more exhausting than the heroics.

It would build character in the others. Not in Morgana, obviously. _He_ had already built more than enough character to endure mere _boredom_.

“We lay low for now,” he said. No reason to let Akira show him up, “Excellent job in there.”

“Seriously,” Akira said, just _determined_ to get the last word, “You too, Mona. You really outdid yourself in there.” The others gave their agreement - Lady Ann’s enthusiastic, Ryuji’s muted. Morgana straightened, trying to find somewhere else to look other than at them. Should he have been proud that he’d wowed them, or annoyed that they’d set their sights low enough that he’d so easily surpassed them?

He settled for a happy medium, murmuring, “We gave it our all. Now we just see how it plays out.”

**August 13, 2017 A.T.B. - Ann**

This was almost getting to be routine. First, there would be a burst of action and terror. Ann would at once become all powerful and more explicitly vulnerable than ever. That part was a whirlwind, she would jump in and it would throw her every which way. She just hung on and prayed she’d be strong enough to make it through. Then it would die down, and she’d be thrust back into her normal life.

Only it couldn’t _really_ be normal with that tornado still winding around and around above her. So the chaos of the Metaverse would be replaced by a creeping unease - a sort of stage fright. Eventually, the storm would touch down again, and Ann would have to be ready when it did. All she could do was wait and try to steady her breath.

There had always been some semblance of a plan, though, an idea of _when_ she would need to be ready. Now they were switching it up: this time, who could say when the slow dread would finally end.

Unless something had gone wrong, Ann’s part in the change of heart was over. The whole process was over, except for whatever it was going to do to Kamoshida.

His palace was gone from Akira’s phone. As far as any of them could tell, there wasn’t a way back in - the only logical explanation was that it was gone. Ann could follow that logic a step further, to the conclusion that they had succeeded. Her head could even accept that.

But until something happened, that wasn’t _enough_.

It was grasping at straws - like she was _trying_ to psyche herself out. But what if somehow they _hadn’t_ successfully changed his heart? Like, maybe getting caught by him in the palace had cancelled their chance to do so. Or Morgana may have just been wrong about the whole concept.

Both felt unlikely, but what was their game plan if they turned out to be the case? If the palace was gone, was that just it? Had Morgana said this was their one shot, or had Ann just come up with that on her own and internalized it as truth?

The night of the change of heart, she’d thought of all this, staring at her ceiling instead of sleeping - _again_. Ann had shook her head. She’d rolled onto her side, checked under her pillow. The medal was still there. It was still proof that whatever else was true, they’d _won_. She’d _beat_ him.

But he couldn’t be this easy to deal with.

Yesterday had passed slowly, but without incident. Ryuji had highlighted the lack of developments by almost constantly pestering the groupchat. Ann got that - he was going to spend most of the day cut off from Ashford. But he seemed to think she specifically would just _know_.

Shirley had been just as bad from the other direction. _She_ had texted in staccato bursts between and after classes. Ann didn’t know when she was finding the time to hear about and pursue all these supposed leads, given how much she was spending telling her about them.

Between the two of them, Ann’s phone basically hadn’t stopped buzzing all day.

A little after classes ended, Shirley had sent something that had made Ann sit up straight in her seat, ‘So here’s a thing: Mr. Kamoshida cancelled volleyball practice today.’

It hadn’t been much. But it was movement: something she could report back to the others. By the number of exclamation points Ryuji had littered his reply with, _he_ took it as a victory. Akira had added, ‘That’s a change. Can’t face his victims anymore?’

It was easy to imagine, and Ann could let herself hope. _Believing_ , though, would take just a little bit more.

And today, just before classes, she’d gotten just a little bit more. Everything had started the same as it always did. Ann still hadn’t been able to sleep: anticipation joined nerves to keep her up. Necessity had dragged her out of bed, and after that she’d known she might as well get ready for the day. Her phone had pinged only once during it: Ryuji. ‘we got him?’

She’d left him on seen, and headed off to start her day. For a rarity, it was a little overcast. The drear only served to make everything feel like it’d be a little more sluggish.

So she’d thought. Then Ann saw Kamoshida standing by a fountain near the main hall, staring into its basin.

The moment she saw him, he glanced her way - like he had some sort of sensor. It stopped her in her tracks, made her grip the strap of her bag a little tighter. His brow knitted, and he smiled. It was still fake - but differently so.

He lumbered toward Ann, and her first instinct was to make an excuse and bolt. That wouldn’t help anyone, though. So she planted her feet and tried to remember how it felt to be the one with the power. Because that’s where she _was_ now, she just had to remember and act like it.

Kamoshida stopped maybe a pace further away than he would have a few days ago. Up close, he looked like hell. His eyes were red, and he didn’t _badly_ need a shave, but his stubble was starting to be noticeable. Awkwardly, he held up a hand, saying, “Hello,” quietly. Ann didn’t think she’d ever heard him _quiet_ in either world.

It was weird. More than weird, _eerie_. Once you took away the ego and the entitlement, what was even left of Kamoshida? Someone entirely different. But here he was, with the same face that had been haunting Ann for over a year now. She gulped, forced some steel into her voice, “Do you need something, Kamoshida- _sensei_?”

Kamoshida tried another pained smile, “You… don’t have anything to be worried about from me.” He tensed, adding, “Anymore. I just… I need a favor.”

“A favor.”

“Yes,” Kamoshida bowed at the waist. Several students on their way to morning classes gawked, and yes, this was incredibly out of character for him, “After classes today… I need to use the student council’s PA.” Straightening, he anticipated her next question, “I would use the faculty one, but they would ask what I’m going to say, and I just… there are things I need people to hear.”

A second too late, Ann realized she should be acting shocked about this sudden change. Confused, maybe a little guarded. She tried to correct, furrowing her brow like this was only just occurring to her. _Ann_ didn’t believe herself, so she doubted Kamoshida did. But she also suspected he didn’t care at this point, “Uh… Milly was talking about having you on to try to clear your name.” He laughed. Not a big one, just a startled little pant, “I’ll tell her you want to, and we’ll see what we can do?” Too weak. Ann tried again, “Look, just show up. We’ll make sure you have an audience.”

Kamoshida nodded. He seemed too numb to even notice anything unusual in Ann’s behavior, “Thank you.” It must not have been enough: he tried again, “Thank you so much. I know that I don’t deserve-”

“You’re getting _exactly_ what you deserve,” Ann snapped, regretting it instantly. She’d wanted to break the daze, but that might have been a step too far. Surely he’d be suspicious of that? Or someone would hear it, and _they_ would be?

But he wasn’t. And they weren’t. Kamoshida considered her, nodded. Stepping out of her way, he said, “Have a good day, Ms. Takamäki.”

She strode past him, trying to ignore her pounding pulse. Ms. Takamäki. Not Ann- _chan_. Never Ann- _chan_ again - and not a moment too soon.

Once she was safely away, Ann rushed to find somewhere she could be alone. Under a stairwell, she took out her phone, trying to keep the elated grin from her face. She paused before she texted the groupchat, let herself revel in the truth of what she was about to say.

‘Got him.’

* * *

That afternoon, the student council chamber was a confused, swirling mass of different moods. Everyone had a different idea of what was about to happen. For most of them, that idea amounted to ‘not much.’ Nina whispered something about the budget to Milly. They were finally going to get to that after the interview, and Nina seemed convinced that _that_ was going to be the important part of the day. She’d made a spreadsheet and everything.

A few seats down, Lelouch and Rivalz had been put to work setting up a second microphone for Kamoshida, the primary one sitting in front of Milly. They speculated about what they were going to hear. _Of course_ it wasn’t something for them to take seriously - just something a little unusual to serve as a brief distraction. Ann was actually a little surprised they’d bothered to show up. Akira was doing a pretty good job of blending in with them - he laughed the appropriate amount when Rivalz lowered his voice and said, “You don’t suppose the _Phantom Thieves_ got him?”

Shirley was almost late, for a wonder. When she _did_ arrive, she had a couple sheafs of paper, passing one to Ann, one to Akira. It wasn’t quite a _script_ , but it was a series of questions she’d prepped ahead of the interview, “I figure if he gets evasive, these’ll pack more punch if it’s not just me asking!”

Ann skimmed the papers, knowing that she wasn’t going to find anything new in particular. Shirley had gotten pretty far - about as far as she could have without the Metaverse. She asked a lot about the volleyball team (they’d shut _her_ down just about as soundly as they had Ann). By contrast, the cleaning staff was almost completely absent from her questions - maybe Shirley hadn’t thought to talk to them. She saved Shiho for the end: clearly, it was meant as a dramatic ‘wham’ question. She also got her surname wrong: ‘Suzuki.’

But at least Shirley knew this _mattered_. She just thought this was somewhere in the middle of _her_ takedown of Kamoshida - not at the end of Ann’s.

Milly was probably the furthest from the truth. With bright smiles and chipper energy, the poor thing couldn’t possibly have had any idea what she was about to broadcast. She was, no doubt, hoping for maybe five minutes of Kamoshida clearing the air followed by twenty or so of her own playful, personal questions.

When Kamoshida came through the door looking like a man heading for the firing squad, Ann wondered if Milly reconsidered. If she did, she did a good job of hiding it, bounding up and clasping his hand in both of hers. She chirped, “Kamoshida- _sensei_! Good to have you here - thank you _so much_ for agreeing to this!”

He actually flinched back from her - maybe for a second, he saw a skintight habit instead of her uniform. Vacantly, he said, “I should be the one thanking you, Ms. Ashford.”

“Oh, stop,” Milly waved him off, guiding him to his seat before fluttering back to her own, “Now, you already know how to use this, right? It’s easy enough, just-”

Kamoshida cut her off, “I would like to get started, if that’s alright.”

It stopped her for a beat - Milly wasn’t used to being so flatly interrupted. Normally you just held on tight and followed her energy. She never could be held back for long, though: now, she smiled brightly, “Eager. I like that!”

“Please,” he said quietly.

Milly paused, looking questioningly at the rest of the student council. They all were just as thrown by this change in Kamoshida as she was - or at least, Ann and Akira could pretend to be. She breathed in like she was going to speak - maybe suggest calling this off for now. But she shook her head, cleared her throat, and flipped the PA’s switch. Everyone braced for impact, and she called out, “Gooood afternoon Ashford Academy! This is your benevolent student council president, Milly Ashford!” Rivalz rushed to her side, playing a gong sound effect from his phone into the speaker. She gave him a thumb’s up, and he ducked back just as fast, “We have a special announcement for you today about some rumors that have been circulating: we’ve called our very own Mr. Kamoshida to-”

“With all due respect, Ms. Ashford,” Kamoshida said. He was more level, less performative than Milly, but his voice rang out just as clearly from the speakers outside, “I would prefer to set the record straight myself. I don’t need an interview. Just a chance to speak.”

For a moment, Milly just stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. A part of Ann felt for her: maybe she should’ve given more of a hint of what they were in for today. Oh well: she had a knack for rolling with the punches. Now, that meant leaning back in her seat, arms crossed, and gesturing for him to go ahead, “By all means.”

“Thank you.” Kamoshida bowed in his seat. He didn’t come up from it, or open his eyes. His face was hard to read: he might’ve been savoring these last moments of his castle before it all came crashing down. But if the change of heart had gone through, it should’ve been as much an eyesore to him as anyone else now.

Finally he spoke, “Many of you already know me: my name is Suguru Kamoshida. I’ve worked at Ashford for the last four years, during which time I’ve taught Japanese and coached the volleyball team.

“I have been reborn. And so now I will confess everything to you all,” one last deep breath: he was really going to take every moment he could before going through with this. With a care for his words he’d never needed before, he went on, “I have repeatedly done things that were… unbecoming of a teacher.

“The most benign of my actions are the ones I’ve directed toward Ashford students. Whenever I have been able to get away with it, I’ve verbally and physically abused students, including my team. The only reason these actions were not more widespread or more… egregious was because I knew that my status as a former Number would make any action I took toward a Britannian student more susceptible to scrutiny.

“Instead, I turned the worst of my actions on Ashford’s cleaning staff. I took advantage of the power I held over them not just for its own sake, but also as stand-ins for the student body. Things I couldn’t do to students, I _could_ to Elevens who couldn’t fight back.”

Kamoshida stopped short again, his hand going to his mouth. The memory shook him: it was clear what was coming next, “For _them_ my crimes had no limit, up to and including sexual assault. The girl who attempted suicide on campus earlier this week - her name is Shiho Suzui. She is just one of my victims.”

Kamoshida’s voice broke as he said it. Of course it did: what he’d done would disgust any decent person. Facing the monster he’d been, Kamoshida came apart before their eyes. He fell, sobbing, into his hands. He tried to calm himself - somehow, there was still more for him to confess. All that came out were blubbering, whimpered apologies.

Ann couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for him. She could only imagine what it would be like to be in his shoes - a monster suddenly turned human again. The way he sputtered and shook - he must’ve been in real pain. But if one more person had to suffer because of his actions, it _should_ have been him.

A deadly voice came from the head of the table - it took Ann a second to realize that it was Milly. Stone didn’t look right on her face, “Rivalz, call campus security.”

“On it.” He was just as grave, just as grim as she was. They all were - the whole council was caught somewhere between horror and plain shock.

“Please,” Kamoshida begged, breath ragged. The others looked right through him: reformed or no, there wasn’t much time left for him here. Desperately grasping his microphone, he said, “I… thought of this school as my own castle. I built a line of defense for myself through emotional manipulation - making many of you unknowing collaborators in my abuse.

“I don’t mean to shift any of the blame - that falls squarely on my own shoulders, and I am truly sorry for everything I’ve done. All the innocents, every vulnerable person I’ve put through hell-” his eyes flicked to Ann for just a moment. She doubted anyone else saw it, “I am an arrogant, weak… a deeply shameful person.”

He gulped, “It is my intention to kill myself to atone for my crimes. I expect no forgiveness for what I’ve done: all I want is-”

“You son of a bitch!” Ann had screamed it before she’d thought of it, stood before she knew what she’d done. She slammed her fist into the table, “You don’t get to run away from this!” Not after Ann had summoned up all of her mercy not to put him down herself, “If Shiho has to live with what you did, so do you!”

Kamoshida only stared at her. Faintly, Ann heard dead air on the PA outside - she wondered if it had picked up her outburst at all. That didn’t matter: it wasn’t a part of his last show. He nodded, “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I will… as of today, I resign my position, and I will turn myself in.” He switched off the PA, rising and bowing deep at the waist, “Thank you, all of you, for your time. Please call the police-”

“Step outside this room. Get on your knees, and put your hands behind your head.” Milly’s voice was ice.

Kamoshida must’ve known this was going to happen when he tore down his façade. Still, he seemed so shocked, “I-”

“I don’t give a shit about your _apologies_!” she snapped. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she took a deep breath, and said again, exactly as she had before, “Step outside this room. Get on your knees, and put your hands behind your head.”

Who could say what Kamoshida was looking for when he searched all of their faces in turn. He wasn’t liable to find it, unless he _wanted_ their scorn. When he came to her, something swelled in Ann’s chest: vindication? She wanted to say something, put one last bow on her victory.

That would give the game away. So she glared through his anguished look until he nodded one last time, quietly accepting her anger.

Then Kamoshida turned, staggering into the hallway and closing the door behind him. It was over.

Not _quite_ over. Milly slumped into the depths of her seat at the same time that Ann collapsed into her own. Rubbing at her temples, some of her characteristic levity found its way back into her voice, “We’re _not_ doing the budget today.”

No one objected. Barely anyone said anything except for whispered, shocked agreement. Despite the weight of the world pressing down on everything, Ann almost laughed. What did it say that that wasn’t a given?

There was still more waiting to be done. After she’d taken a moment to breathe, Milly called Settlement police and explained the situation. On their advice, they locked the door to the council chamber to wait for the all clear. Ann doubted that Kamoshida would be any more of a threat at this point, but there was no use in saying that.

A long silence settled over the council chamber while they waited. Lelouch broke it to call his family’s maid, telling her to keep Nunnally away from the dance hall until everything blew over. Poor Nina had an anxiety attack as the minutes dragged on - Shirley and Milly coached her back to long, slow breaths. They thanked Ann for helping, so she must’ve, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember it.

They could hear the struggle, such as it was, when the police arrived. They’d come loaded for a bear, by the sounds of it. They must’ve heard that the perp was a former Number, and assumed they’d need a fully armed counterterrorism unit. Never mind that he was unarmed, never mind that he was surrendering. Akira kept his eyes closed through the whole process. There were no gunshots. What a small bright spot that was.

A few knocks announced the all clear, and Milly stepped out to talk for a few moments with one of the soldiers who’d come. Ann didn’t catch much of that conversation - it seemed like just checking to make sure the students were alright, confirming that, and thanking the soldiers for their service.

When Milly returned, she closed the door behind her and sank down to the floor, “Okay. That’s over. God…” she looked at Ann, trying for playful and just barely missing it, “And thank you _so_ much for the warning!”

“Sorry…” Ann said, remembering a second later that she was supposed to be as surprised as everyone else. With a panicked squeak, she added, “Wait, but how was I supposed to know he’d just…!?”

Words failed her. From Nina’s side, Shirley suggested, “Just admit to everything?” Ann gave her a thankful thumbs up.

Milly giggled. Maybe that was nerves, or just trying to force the world back to normal, “Aw. Shirley, you didn’t get to use your notes.”

“Huh?” as soon as she’d asked, it clicked, “Oh. That’s… I mean, it doesn’t matter now. At least someone caught him.”

“Still, you worked so hard.”

“Guess the Phantom Thieves are the real deal, huh?” Rivalz breathed.

“Or a girl tried to kill herself, and it made Kamoshida realize what he was doing to people,” Lelouch suggested, leaning back in his chair to look at the ceiling, “Does someone like that just grow a conscience one day?”

“He was… he was here for so long,” Nina mumbled, almost too low to hear. She hugged at herself, trying to curl into a ball, “ _Looking_ at us. And… and we just had no idea…”

“Breathe, Nina,” Milly dusted herself off as she rose, taking a power stance. It was a little too forced, but you had to appreciate the way she took charge, “So obviously, the meeting’s adjourned for today. I don’t know about you all, but I’m gonna go take a shower.”

It didn’t sound like a bad idea. But Ann still let herself straggle behind as the others filtered out, moving on to whatever was next for them.

Soon it was just her and Akira. They locked eyes, and he held a finger to his lips. They waited just a moment longer, and whoever was out last closed the door behind them.

Then and only then did they allow themselves to breathe normally again. Even now, Ann hesitated to call it. But looking at the ceiling, still hearing Kamoshida’s confession ringing in her ears, she breathed, “It’s over.”

It was music. No, better than that, it was heaven. The idea that she would ever be free from Kamoshida’s shadow, that she might be so unambiguously _safe_ … it felt as impossible as the Metaverse had.

“Hey now,” Akira said, and Ann realized she was crying.

She gave an embarrassed sniff, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand, “Sorry. I just… I can’t believe…” words failed her. Another wave of that ecstatic relief washed over her, and she sniffed back more tears, “We did it - like, we really did.”

“Yeah,” he said simply, “Thank you.”

Ann laughed, giving him a look, “Don’t be dumb. _I_ should be the one-”

“This is the first time I’ve been able to do anything like this. To…” he swallowed something. Ann suspected ‘to strike back,’ “I guess to do something good and have it _not_ blow up in my face. I couldn’t have done it without you. So thank you.”

Ann wasn’t sure she’d go that far. Once Arsène entered the picture, she had trouble imagining Akira _not_ using that power to make a change. She’d just been glad to be along for the ride.

But he said it so genuinely. It made her think maybe it was true. So she smiled, “Then… well, the feeling’s mutual. So thank you too.” Something made her giggle. Maybe embarrassment - maybe more relief, “We should celebrate.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets, “Yeah? You figure out what the medal’s worth already?”

“Jack,” Ann said, not even really being able to manage bitterness right now. She added, “Not really, I just mean-”

“I gotcha.”

“Right. I don’t know yet,” she grimaced, “We should celebrate anyway. All of us.”

Akira considered that, carefully saying, “Getting Ryuji out of the ghetto’ll be…” he didn’t say ‘borderline impossible’ but also couldn’t think of a good euphemism.

“Then let’s go to him,” she said without a second thought.

Akira had a few, clearly. He blinked at her, “Uh… you sure…?”

“Think about what we did,” Ann said, “If we can take down Kamoshida, what can’t we do?”

**Outside of Time - Akira**

That night, Akira had gone to bed feeling accomplished. He’d worried, with his adrenaline running a little bit again with the high of victory, that he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep. That had been nothing to be concerned about, it turned out: once again, he hit the pillow and all but passed out.

Then he’d opened his eyes, and saw the velvet ceiling of a cell.

He’d spent so much time dealing with Kamoshida’s palace, he’d forgotten it wasn’t the only bizarre supernatural thing happening to him.

He was already rising when Caroline’s baton hit the bars. Her shout of, “On your feet, inmate! Show some respect!”

“Would you be quiet?” he muttered - apparently a touch too loudly. When she hit the bars this time, sparks flew. Akira ducked back just in time. The diminutive warden’s nostrils flared, but she must’ve decided that show of force was enough, returning to attention a moment later.

Others, at least, were more hospitable. If creepier.

“The prodigal son returns!” Igor boomed. Slowly, deliberately, he clapped his hands. His arms looked just a bit too long and too thin for his body - the overall effect was of a skeletal bird trying to take flight, “And he returns triumphant at that.”

“It’s been a while,” Akira said with a nod. Glancing down at the wardens, he added, “Sir.”

“You have been hard at work, I see,” Igor chuckled. He probably didn’t mean for it to, but it made the hairs on the back of Akira’s neck stand up straight, “To think that the ruler of a palace should fall so handily before you - even before your rehabilitation has begun in earnest! Truly, yours is a power with great and terrible potential.”

The twin wardens exchanged what they must have thought was a subtle look of surprise. The quieter of them, Justine, turned her gaze appraisingly on Akira, clutching her clipboard to herself. “Our master does not dispense such praise lightly, inmate.”

“So you better be grateful!” Caroline added.

Akira was silent - that tended to be the best response, with these two. When he’d thought it through, though, he asked, “… my rehabilitation hasn’t begun?”

“Heavens, no!” Igor said, “Look about your reality: see the distortion that permeates its every fiber. Such a wretched hive of scum and villainy will surely fall before the coming ruin. It calls for someone to set it to rights. Someone who laughs at the petty fetters of society, and pursues their own justice.” He held out a hand, gesturing to Akira’s cell, “In other words, a trickster.”

Absurd. Akira laughed: it echoed throughout the empty chamber. Caroline banged on his cell, and obediently, Akira was silent. He waited for the last reverberations to die down, “See, that’s why I think this is a dream, still.” He held up his hands, demonstrating the chains between them, “In case you haven’t noticed, even in my _dreams_ , I’m still a prisoner.”

Igor nodded in understanding. He leaned back in his chair, resting his head on a fist, “Then what do you have to lose?”

Akira found that he had no answer.

**August 14, 2017 A.T.B. - Ryuji**

This had seemed like such a good idea yesterday.

When Kamoshida had broadcast his confession, Ryuji had been back on landscaping duty. He’d done his best to keep his head down and pretend to be going through business as usual - to act like he _wasn’t_ on the edge of his seat. That was hard to do when you knew that at any moment somebody was going to turn the world upside down.

He’d been the first one from his group to stop working to listen, but not the last. By the end, they were all standing dumbstruck as Kamoshida unveiled everything he’d done - everything they’d all suffered through. It wasn’t a _revelation_ for them the way it was for the wide-eyed Brit students all around. They’d all _known_ the awful truth, there was no horror in hearing it again. There was still shock, though. Wonderful, joyous shock.

After all, when was the last time any of them had had this kind of win?

The PA had crackled back off, and Ryuji hadn’t been alone in cheering. That was _not_ laying low, whether you were a magical phantom thief or an Eleven kid meant to be seen and not heard (if even seen). And for a moment, it hadn’t mattered, because just _once_ , someone had admitted that the way they were all treated was wrong. Just this once, Ashford’s Elevens got justice instead of a boot in their face.

And even if they never knew, Ryuji had gotten to be the one to give it to them.

It was right back to work after that, but he’d spent the rest of the day somewhere up in the clouds regardless. He’d stayed there for most of today.

So of course he’d thought it was just a brilliant idea when Ann texted the group chat suggesting they meet up tomorrow (now today), in Shinjuku. They had shit to celebrate, who had time to wait?

And _of course_ he hadn’t batted an eye when Akira had told them he’d be stuck in a probation meeting until a little later, and Ann had replied that she could just head out separately. Y’know: on her own. Into the ghetto.

That hadn’t quite clicked into place for Ryuji until he was standing by the bus station, slowly being suffocated by the crowd gathering around him. Shinjuku only sort of stopped: it was, after all, a compressed version of what Tokyo had been before the war. The roads never got _crazy_ like they had in old-Tokyo, but around morning and in the start of the afternoon, there was this crammed mess of traffic. The Settlement wanted Elevens for exactly as long as it took to do their jobs, then it was straight back to the ghetto. It so happened that Britannian efficiency had them all coming and going around the same time.

And Ryuji, who’d been living that for the last week, should’ve planned around it. But he’d been busy: he hadn’t thought of logistics like that.

He _had_ thought to splurge a little on a box of street takoyaki from a vendor on the way to the station. Belatedly - like, the moment he handed over the cash - Ryuji had realized that was a bad choice of snack. It’d be cold by the time Akira got here. Maybe even by the time Ann did.

That had been the first crack through which reality could start flooding back in. The second was when it really clicked that Ann was coming. Yeah, they’d seen each other practically every day since Ryuji’d started work at Ashford, but this was different. They hadn’t had a chance for a real, honest one-on-one since before Ryuji fell into the Metaverse. Actually, even the one they’d had before barely counted: Ann had already been dealing with all the other world’s craziness before he’d known anything about it. Come to think of it, Ryuji had no idea if she even knew they’d already met.

The thought tugged at him, but he had no idea why. Maybe it’d be better if she didn’t remember him? Seven years changed a lot. Was there even gonna be any common ground between the two of them now that the palace was dealt with? They practically lived in different worlds. If she _didn’t_ make the connection, at least whatever memory she had of the kid he had been was safe from the loser he’d become.

Still. Who liked being forgotten?

The last thing he wanted was for this to be awkward. It never had been down by the riverbed - so if it was now, that meant those days were well and truly over. Ryuji wasn’t sure he’d be able to take that.

He gulped, and wanted to kick himself. Where the hell did he get off being nervous about _this_? What, Kamoshida’s palace was an exciting adventure, but hanging out with a pretty girl was terrifying?

Well yeah. Give Ryuji the right tools, and he could tear through a palace no problem. Here, in the real world, all he had was a little paper boat of takoyaki, slowly getting soggier and flimsier.

Another bus rolled into the station, and Ryuji bobbed on his tiptoes to see it over the crowd. There wasn’t really much point in looking until it rolled to a stop. Britannian public transport tended to have tinted windows. He wouldn’t know if Ann was on board until she got out.

Which she did, one of the first in the queue. It was actually almost a little weird to see her out of uniform, catsuit notwithstanding. Ann had a black tank top and denim shorts, with a checkered flannel tied around her waist. She looked so normal. Of course she did, but a part of Ryuji’s mind had pictured her to be coming out of a limo, maybe some butler guy carrying the train of her gown.

The guards manning the inevitable checkpoint did a double take when they processed her. Ryuji worried a little that they’d give her trouble, but they might actually have sent her on her way faster than the most of the arrivals they _knew_ were Elevens.

She cast her gaze this way and that, and Ryuji realized he’d missed a cue. He pushed his way out of the crowd, stumbling a little into view, “Ann!”

“Ryuji!” she returned, giving him a short wave before bounding up his way. Her face was a reminder of what he was _supposed_ to be feeling right now - like she’d just figured out how to fly, and had no intention to ever come down. Or like she’d _always_ known how, and now the chain keeping her from doing it was gone.

It made him feel a little foolish: Ryuji should’ve been soaring up there with her, but here he was bogged down in… what exactly?

Maybe just the fear that he and Shinjuku had to impress Ann. Make up for the fact that she’d chosen _them_ over some ritzy party in the Settlement Ryuji wouldn’t be able to go to. And what were the odds of managing that?

And she was snapping her fingers in front of his face, “Ryuji? You alive?”

Ryuji jerked his head back in surprise. He _had_ to stop getting stuck in his own thoughts like this, people were starting to notice. A little red with embarrassment, he said, “Yeah I’m… I’m fine.” He tried a smile. When he stopped telling himself he was supposed to be nervous, it fit perfectly, “Great, actually.” A second too late, he added, “Uh, you?”

“Oh, you know,” Ann said, and he did, “Actually got a decent night’s sleep, so… I mean, that’s exciting!”

He laughed a little. Over Ann’s shoulder, people were starting to look their way. Weren’t there better things to worry about than some people meeting at a bus station?

Ryuji jerked his head, gesturing for Ann to follow. She did, glancing down, and Ryuji could swear something sparkled in her eyes, “Ooh, what do you got?”

He looked at the box. The batter had all started to settle: they were all starting to look more like miniature pancakes than real balls. Still, he held them up a little, “Takoyaki. Figured we could use a snack?”

“Two for each of us,” Ann observed, quickly amending, “Wait, Morgana.”

Ryuji had almost forgotten the cat would be there. He certainly hadn’t thought he’d have to feed him, “Maybe two for me, two for you, and Akira and the cat can share two?”

Ann winked, saying conspiratorially, “Or we share these all now and go get another batch?” That sounded like a _much_ better idea. She even tacked on, “I can buy if that’s a-”

It was probably the smart move, but Ryuji still waved it off, “No way. You’re a guest.”

“What a gentleman,” Ann said, biting into a ball. She really was a master thief: Ryuji hadn’t even seen her take one. She let out a delighted little squeal when the flavor hit, which was maybe a touch excessive.

Still, Ryuji wasn’t going to let her get ahead. He popped a piece into his mouth whole. Still lukewarm, which wasn’t ideal, but the spices made up for it. Really, they were doing Akira a favor by dealing with this batch themselves.

Ann snagged a second one without even finishing the first. She gazed into it like some kind of crystal ball, “You know, no matter where I look, I can’t find _anywhere_ that sells these in the Settlement.”

Huh. Something Ryuji’s little corner of the world had that Ann’s didn’t.

* * *

Introducing someone to Shinjuku was a new experience. It had been so long since Ryuji had met someone who hadn’t either been there for the ghetto’s creation or else born in it. He probably wasn’t the best tour guide. Ann’s head kept swiveling this way and that, her brow knitted like she was trying to engrave each image into her mind.

There was, it turned out, a lot that Ryuji took for granted. Ann stopped for a solid minute to stare at a bombed out shop that had never been fully repaired. He’d passed it on the way to the station without a second glance, but for her it stood out.

She took in a breath like she was going to say something, but then let it out. Ryuji nodded in agreement, and they moved on.

To be honest, he had no idea where he was taking her. Shinjuku didn’t have what you’d call a lot of tourist spots. Frankly, it was probably too depressing a place to be celebrating anything.

The trick for Ryuji had always been to distract himself: maybe it would work for Ann too. They made short work of the first boat - and, it turned out, of the second. Ryuji let Ann get the third. The old man running the stand waggled a finger at him for letting ‘such a lovely young lady’ pay. Ryuji made some kind of indignant sound and Ann laughed, and honestly that made it worth it.

It was all so normal. And like, why should it not have been? They’d been friends before, and that was _without_ teaming up to take out a sexually harassing d-bag.

There was this little miniature park in between two buildings, maybe a block away from Emvi B. It would’ve been sad even before the war: it was really just a vacant lot small enough that no one knew what to do with it. Greenery got to stay because industry had no idea what to put there instead.

It had it all: a trio of trees over in one corner, surrounded by mulch where there’d probably been a garden. There were a couple of benches and a public bathroom, and a pair of swings going to rust. It was pretty in its own way. For want of anywhere else to go, Ryuji and Ann had planted themselves on the swings.

She glowed when he told her about the cleaning crew’s reaction to Kamoshida’s confession, “Seriously. On the way back, Mishima- _san_ was all, ‘They really came through for us, didn’t they?’ And I was like, ‘who?’” He fanned his hands, imagining their name in lights above the glorified alley, “‘The _Phantom Thieves_!’”

Ann preened, tossing back a pigtail, “Well we _are_ pretty amazing, if I do say so myself.”

“For real,” Ryuji agreed. He leaned forward in his seat, the chains of the swing squeaking protest, “If it weren’t for you guys-”

“And if it weren’t for _you_ ,” she said, “Seriously - I feel like I just got done talking to Akira about this.”

“Yeah, but…” Ryuji wasn’t sure what to say. _But_ it still didn’t feel like he was worth the trouble? _But_ he’d only been correcting his own mistakes? _But_ this had been the first real shot someone had given him to make something of himself in seven years? “I dunno. I just feel like if it weren’t for you two…”

“Three: Morgana,” she corrected, and he smacked his forehead, “I think we _all_ feel like that. I know for me, it was the first time I felt like I could change anything since coming back.”

Ryuji almost laughed - what was this country if _Ann_ , so clearly miles and miles above him, felt word for word like _he_ did? His leg bobbed up and down, and he clasped a hand on his knee to try and stop it, “You… probably got out right before, right?”

She nodded, “It’s weird - like, it really wasn’t _that_ long ago, but most of what I remember comes in flashes. Not just then, but like… all the time before. There’s these splotches of boring, ordinary life that all kind of blend together and then _bam_ , something vivid and distinct. Does that make sense?”

Ryuji waggled a hand back and forth, “Kinda. You make it sound like a dream.”

Ann smiled awkwardly, “Well it kinda was, wasn’t it? The time before?”

He let out a bitter laugh, and she gave him an apologetic look. Ryuji wished she wouldn’t: it wasn’t like it was her fault.

There was a lull. Ann kept fidgeting during it, looking at the ground, the sky, the wall. Slowly, she said, “I remember I always used to go down to the river on my bike, and there was this boy I would play with.” Ryuji gulped, but she just went on, starry eyed and wistful, “Like, we must’ve looked like lunatics: I feel like we were always running around doing _something_. He was this ball of energy you ended up getting sucked up in.” She looked at him. He looked back.

“I remember this one time… we were looking for turtles, I think. I have no idea what we were gonna _do_ with one, but like we got it in our heads that we needed to get one. We were gonna go wade out deeper, and he, like… he put his arm out like this…” Ann mirrored the gesture, her arm coming up like she was stopping a kid walking into traffic, “… and he _insisted_ he should go first. Because he was the _boy_ , so it was his job to protect me.” She giggled, and Ryuji had to laugh a little too. “And I know he was just trying to be nice, but it just made me so mad? So like… I went with it. And then once we got deep enough I just…” she mimed pushing.

Years ago, Ryuji had never been more indignant. He had, in fact, tugged on her leg the moment he realized what was happened: if he was going to be soaked, so was she.

She’d conveniently left that part out, “Bet he got you back, though.”

At the time, it had been a tragic tale of betrayal and revenge. How could he know that later it would tighten his throat?

“Yeah…” she shook her head, “He… put up with a lot. Not just from me…” There was a brief pause, where the years since that day caught back up. Ann opened her mouth, and Ryuji’s heart stuttered. Carefully, she asked, “And… you’re him, right?”

Ryuji’s throat was dry. His first ridiculous instinct was to deny it. But like… why?

“Yeah.”

Then he looked at his feet, because they were so much less embarrassing than everything else about him.

Ann either took a couple of seconds or a couple of days to process that. When she spoke again, there was the slightest hint of laugh in her voice, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What would’ve been the point?” he forced out. “There was more important stuff goin’ on.”

From his periphery he saw her eyes flick to his nose. It was healing nicely: pretty soon you wouldn’t even be able to tell he’d got hit. When he could bring himself to look back at her, she looked so relieved, it was hard not to feel the same. Ann kicked back a little, let the swing carry her lazily back and forth, “At least _something_ good came out of all this, then.”

More than _something_. The most good Ryuji had gotten in… in ever.

He smiled, gripping the chain of his swing, “Yeah. At least.”

**August 14, 2017 A.T.B. - Akira**

That morning, there was a rare PA announcement from Headmaster Ruben Ashford. In gentle, grandfatherly tones, he reminded students that academy policy was not to spread rumors about any ongoing criminal cases related to the school.

Akira had never heard of any such policy. There certainly had never seemed to be one in _his_ experience.

Kamoshida faired no better. Suddenly, it felt like _everyone_ had a story: something suspect they’d seen, something he’d said that made them uncomfortable. Each was more sensational than the last. If half of them were true, forget about getting fired, or even arrested: a mob of angry parents would’ve strung him up long ago.

Akira gave a little more credit to what the volleyball team was saying. They didn’t have to stretch the truth as far to get a horror story about their treatment. They may all have been leaving out the parts of Kamoshida’s tyranny they’d been party to, but that was to be expected.

Besides, _everyone_ was doing that. It was always ‘can you believe what was under our nose?’ but never ‘can you believe we didn't notice?’

Kamoshida’s downfall even merited mention during Akira’s probation meeting. On his way out the door, Riegel had once again stopped him, “Oh, and Kurusu. It would appear that I owe you an apology.” This time, he had remained behind his desk, still imperious despite the supposed concession, “In light of recent events, it would appear that Suguru Kamoshida was not, shall we say, the ideal model for your behavior that I expected him to be. You have better instincts on that front than I believed.”

It had come as a surprise. Akira had expected them to just gloss over the fact that Kamoshida had ever existed. He’d still had to thank Riegel, and he hadn’t gotten that apology - only the admission that it _should_ be made. It still felt like a victory. That was twice he’d managed to extract an acknowledgement that his parole officer was wrong. Akira couldn’t wait for the third.

After that had been the process of getting into Shinjuku. That had meant leaving academy grounds for the first time since coming there, as well as his first time in the Tokyo Settlement proper. Every other time he’d been in a Settlement - for his court dates or first coming to Ashford - he’d never been in a position to look around. It was hard not to be a bit of a gawking tourist now.

You could kind of tell which of the skyscrapers had been there before the war. For one thing, anything Japan built had to pass through the plate foundation built over the old city. Old Tokyo had been too ruined to use, and so essentially had had to be paved over and replaced. It had been a ludicrously massive - and expensive - undertaking. As added payoff, it turned the Settlement into a literal city on a hill for the ghetto to envy.

Anything that _didn’t_ grow out from below an awkward divot in the plate was new. Britannians built gleaming monoliths: they designed buildings meant to remind you how small you were in the face of the Britannian world order. Even something as simple as a bus station was a gated fortress.

Akira passed through that fortress easily enough - almost all of the people actually using buses were Elevens. Britannians had a soaring electromagnetic monorail winding around the city - but it didn’t pass back into Shinjuku. Elevens had to rely on old fashioned transport to get home every night - so to the guards, Akira looked right at home.

Processing took a while - the guard charged with searching his bag gave Akira a questioning look, but apparently his cargo wasn’t strictly contraband, and so passed on through. Safely seated in the back of a slowly filling bus, Akira unzipped his bag the rest of the way. Morgana burst out instantly, gasping dramatically for breath. Akira gave his head an apologetic scratch, murmuring, “Sorry. Didn’t know if they’d let you on.”

Twisting his neck back and forth to try and crack it, Morgana muttered, “That was a lot of effort just to get on a bus, y’know.” He sighed, resting his paws on Akira’s shoulders, “Alright. We’ve got a while until we get to the others: time for you to tell me what you know.”

And so, for the duration of the ride into Shinjuku, Akira had given Morgana a rundown on the world, from the Invasion onward. They didn’t spend long on things that the cat already knew - he was, in fact, quite irritated whenever those came up, (“What, do you think I’m just an idiot?”). It was weird. He knew what a country was, but not about Britannia. He could grasp the _idea_ of racism, but the Number system was foreign.

They paused only briefly when the bus stopped, and Akira had to go through another checkpoint. Once they were through, Morgana mused, “It just all seems wrong.”

Akira laughed, “You’re telling me.”

“No,” Morgana said. He considered it, “Well, also yes. But I mean _factually_ wrong. Like the things you’re telling me don’t feel like they’re how the world is supposed to be.”

“I mean, we can turn around and tell that to the guards, if you want,” Akira said, “‘Excuse me officer, my cat says that we don’t need a pass card because Britannia isn’t real.’”

“Shut it,” Morgana muttered, kneading a little at Akira’s shoulder, “But what does that mean? Why would I have a different history than the rest of humanity?”

Akira looked at the ruins around them. They looked real enough to him, “Maybe… I mean, you _have_ considered that you might not be human, right?” He let out a yelp as claws dug into him, “Okay, okay, sorry!”

The cat relented, still grumbling wordlessly to himself. Akira used the lull in conversation to check his phone: the others had apparently found a park somewhere nearby. As he headed in that direction, Morgana said, “I’m sure I’m human. Maybe I’m just… a different kind of human?”

“Will you claw me if I question that?”

“Maybe,” he said. A moment later, he sighed, “No. I just… I guess there’s nothing for it but to keep looking _there_.”

Akira blinked, glancing over his shoulder, “There?”

Morgana nearly jumped out of his skin - if he didn’t want Akira involved, why say these things out loud? “I… listen, don’t worry about that. For now.”

And before Akira could retort, he heard Ann calling. Morgana scampered from his bag to the others, suddenly all smiles and bravado. Another time, then. He curled up almost immediately in Ann’s lap, “Lady Ann! I was so worried about you, heading off into the ghetto alone - you’re really too reckless!”

Ryuji rolled his eyes, nodding at Akira, “Sup, man.”

Akira shrugged. He glanced at an empty paper boat at their feet, “Yours?”

“Ours,” Ryuji said, gesturing with it, “There’s a takoyaki stand near here - we kinda ate the first couple-” Ann coughed, and he glanced at her, “The first round.”

Akira smirked. That was totally believable, “Alright. Lead the way, I’ll get round two.”

* * *

“Okay, so what was up with the other night?” Ryuji asked. He’d squatted down by the swing to give Akira a seat in it, “The shit you guys did for the holiday.”

“I’d been meaning to ask about that too, actually,” Akira said, “I know we were hosting some kind of art gallery thing, but why the costumes?”

“Exactly!” Ryuji popped up, gesturing wildly, “We just showed up, and like with no warning _bam_ , Brit kids dressed like paintings!” Ann opened her mouth to answer, and he trampled her with, “For a half second, I thought I was in the Metaverse.”

“Oh come on. It wasn’t _that_ bad,” she gave an embarrassed smile - in part because it had been, actually. Akira had seen some people people wearing literal frames, “So we were supposed to be doing a sort of ‘showcase of cross-cultural art’ type thing.”

“Wait, _that’s_ why we were doing that?” Akira asked. He’d missed most of the meetings planning logistics, “I knew that… Michelangelo?” Ann nodded, “I knew he was a former Eleven, but-”

“Wait, he’s _alive_?!” Ryuji gaped. For a second, Akira was surprised he knew enough about art to be shocked by that. _He’d_ never heard of Michelangelo Rousseau until practically the day before the event. Then Ryuji added, “And he’s _Japanese_!? I thought he was from Europe??” and it clicked.

From Ann’s lap, Morgana laughed, “Seriously? Come on, Ryuji.” He straightened, “ _That_ Michelangelo lived back during the Renaissance - he’d be hundreds of years old by now.”

Ryuji flushed, embarrassed. Honestly, maybe he should’ve been - but where did the cat get off acting that smug about it? “So wait. You know about Renaissance Italy, _that’s_ common knowledge - but not Britannia?”

Morgana didn’t have a proper answer to that, so he just hissed instead. The sheer absurdity of the argument was enough to break Ann down into giggles, and that was infectious enough that the others weren’t far behind.

Akira tried to burn the image into his memory: the four of them sitting in a park, laughing together and basking in the glow of a job well done. Their time together, for all the fear and all the disgust, _had_ been a triumph. So that was how he wanted to remember it.

Triumph could, after all, be so fleeting.

Like he’d predicted it - like he’d _summoned_ them - a harsh voice called out from the entrance to the park, “Elevens!”

Akira saw Ryuji stiffen even as he did the same. If his eyes could talk, they’d’ve kept it brief and said, ‘Figures.’ Or maybe, ‘Now? Really?’ Before they had to settle into the usual song and dance, Akira let his eye roll back into his head. Ryuji’s mouth quirked as he held his hands up.

It was hard to say whether he should stand up now or just wait for the order to do so. Akira made sure both hands were on the chains of the swing, glancing in the direction of the voice. It was a routine patrol: two soldiers in black, both armed. Their body armor seemed a little bulkier than Akira remembered it being back in the Namba ghetto. Was that a Tokyo thing, or was Britannia still bracing for something in light of the holiday?

Switching back to English, Akira asked, “Sir, is there a problem?”

The one who’d spoken before did so again, “On your feet. Hands above your head.”

Obeying was tedious, but automatic. Imagining saying ‘no,’ imagining Arsène flaring up behind him, could only make matters worse. And still, as his hands moved of their own accord, Akira still insisted, “Is there a problem, sir?”

He was once again ignored - though the quieter of the two soldiers trained his weapon on Akira. That hadn’t happened _a lot_ in his life, and it always made his heart race. Ann shot to her feet, Morgana mewling in surprise as he fell to the ground. She shouted, “Seriously, what the fuck?!”

“Easy.” The talkative one actually seemed to be trying to be gentle with her, “We got a noise complaint.” Like hell they did, and like hell they’d follow up on one in the ghetto, but they could all pretend.

Ryuji muttered something that might’ve been, “ _Fuzakeru na_ …” under his breath. If it was, at least they were on the same page.

The quiet one spoke up, “Your friend speak English?”

The dumbest thing was that Akira actually started to answer for him before Ryuji muttered, “Yeah.” A second later, he improved it, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then when we tell you to talk, English.”

“Yes, sir.”

The first guard had managed to place himself between Ann and the others, gesturing outside the park with a free hand, “Miss, if you don’t mind stepping away so I can ask you a few questions.”

“Uh, yeah I mind,” she snapped in tones that made Akira nervous, “You got a noise complaint? Fine, we’ll be quiet.”

With an annoyed sigh, the guard explained, “It’s not every day we see a Britannian schoolgirl in the ghetto, miss. Can’t be too careful.”

“Like hell you- _hey_!” Ann cried out as the soldier finally got tired of waiting for her to comply, and just forced her to. Akira closed his eyes, breathed in, breathed out - he hoped that Ryuji was doing the same.

From the safety of a tree, Morgana yowled, “Lady Ann! You unhand her this instant!” There was some solace in the fact they at least couldn’t understand him. So this would go smoother.

Probably. The remaining guard gestured with his gun, “You know the drill, Elevens. On the wall.”

And yes, Ryuji and Akira had both been here before: they knew the steps. Hands above head, turn on your heel, hands on the wall. Wait. As the guard sidled up behind them, taking out their pass cards to inspect for himself, Akira couldn’t help but think of his time in prison. Supposedly, he was now on the path to something greater. But what had changed?

The inevitable observation came, “This says you’re a student.”

“Yes, sir,” Akira said. He wondered how many times he was going to have to say this, “His Highness has granted me the opportunity to study at Ashford Academy.” He never would’ve even _thought_ about pointing out that he was wearing their uniform before awakening. Now he barely stopped it on the tip of his tongue.

The soldier grunted - that ‘I asked a dumb question, but I’m also the one with the gun’ bravado. He checked over Ryuji’s card without much incident, then stepped back to keep watch.

Time passed differently in this sort of situation. In reality, it was probably just ten minutes - but it felt like the soldier who’d dragged Ann off was gone for hours. Out of the corner of his eye, Akira glanced at Ryuji. He was pretty good at this: anything the soldier might see was the picture of subservience: hands splayed open, facing the wall - not a hint that anything could be wrong. But his face was pure rage.

When they brought Ann back, the first soldier had this cocksure, self-satisfied tone, “Alright then. Sorry for the confusion, Ms. Takamäki.”

“Whatever,” she muttered.

Akira could _feel_ the smug grin as the soldier looked over them, “Alright, Elevens: about-face.” When a second passed without them doing that, he added, “You know what that means, right?”

As they turned, the boys locked eyes for the briefest of moments. Ryuji either set his jaw or else Akira imagined him doing it. They both kept their hands above their heads: better not to take a chance.

The soldier certainly seemed at ease now, hands on his hips. His helmet only exposed his mouth, open in a self-satisfied grin, “There we go. Thank you for your cooperation: keep it down from here on out. All hail Britannia.”

Fuck Britannia.

Even the moment to _think_ that was too long. He said again, a warning in his voice, “Hey. All hail Britannia.”

“All hail Britannia.” The closest they could do to not saying it was to stay out of unison, to deny the words their meaning.

A truly malicious, truly zealous, or truly bored patrol might’ve demanded more passion. This one just chuckled, giving them a one fingered salute, “Good job.”

In his tree, Morgana screeched, “You wouldn’t be so cocky if you knew what they could do! My team eats pricks like you for breakfast!”  
As the soldiers left, the quiet one spared Morgana’s tree a glance, “Noisy cat.”

“Think it’s their dinner?”

They laughed. Akira’s fists clenched. Morgana called out, “That’s right, _walk away_! Easy to act tough when the other guy can’t fight back!!!”

He could say things like that with impunity, and still wanted to find his merely human body?

A moment passed for everyone to breathe. Then Ryuji asked, “Ann, you okay? Did they-”

“I’m fine,” she spat. He flinched, and she tried to dial it back, “I’m fine. Seriously.” Ann ran her hands through her hair, plopping back into her swing, “He just… he asked me if I knew you two. If I felt _safe_.”

“Making sure you weren’t being kidnapped by the big scary Elevens,” Akira said hollowly, leaning back against the wall. After a week of magic and danger, it was almost refreshing to dive back into the daily routine of toeing the line and taking whatever you had to.

Only not at all. Now the gap in his heart felt emptier because it had been full for a moment. Now there was a name he could put on the simmering anger in the back of his mind.

Ryuji kicked at a pebble, “Still, that’s… that’s _bullshit_!”

“I didn’t see you two jumping to stop them, Ryuji!” Morgana shouted. Ryuji’s eyes widened, his lip twitching with anger.

Not as much as there was in Ann’s eyes, “Could you lay off, just _once_ , Morgana!? What were they gonna _do_!?”

If Akira closed his eyes, he could imagine Arsène behind him, picture his claws ripping through the soldiers.

Morgana’s ears flattened into his head, and he whimpered, “Lady Ann… I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too,” Ryuji said, “Seriously. Even if there was nothing I _could_ …”

“It’s okay.” Ann said, “Both of you.” She buried her head in her hands, swinging back and forth for a beat, “God, what even was the point. Of all of that?”

Now that he thought of it, killing was the least of the power at Akira’s disposal. There was so much more he could do.

Ryuji squatted by Ann, gulping as he searched for the words that would help her, “Ann… we did something good. We-”

“Cool. We did _something_ good. In this awful, twisted world, just _once_ the worst possible thing didn’t happen! Hooray!” She looked up, her smile pained, “How’re you liking your reward for that, Ryuji?”

Igor had said it would be power enough to prevent ruin.

“Who says it’s just once?”

Maybe this was how.

The others all looked at Akira. He pushed off the wall, his hands finding his pockets as he looked up at Morgana. The cat sat so rigid, so serious. It felt appropriate for once, “Morgana. Kamoshida can’t have been the only one with a palace, right?”

Something glinted in his eyes. Akira was sure it reflected in his own, “ _I’d_ be shocked. And there’s more to the Metaverse than just palaces.” He stretched a little, saying nonchalantly, “With enough determination and willpower, who knows what someone could do in there?”

It was the most paltry of windows. Barely an opportunity worth glancing at.

But what was the alternative? What did Akira - what did _any_ of them - have to lose?

He looked at Ann and Ryuji, smiled with a confidence he was only beginning to feel, “I know that _I_ can’t just go back to being powerless. Not now. So here’s my proposal: if we can change one person’s heart, why not more?”

Ann’s eyes widened. It couldn’t have been the first time this had occurred to her - but it was the first time any of them had acknowledged it out loud, “So what, just… keep finding palaces and stealing treasures?”

It sounded so simple. Because now it _was_. Akira nodded, “Until it makes a kinder world.”

Ryuji laughed, and for a second, Akira’s heart sunk. But the way his face lit up… there was no other answer, “Sign me up.”

“Me too,” Ann said, standing up, dabbing a wrist at her eye, “We must’ve gotten these powers for a reason, right? Let’s put them to use!”

Akira glanced back into the tree, lazily pointing to the cat, “Morgana? You in?”

“As if you need to ask,” Morgana had never looked more proud of him. And Akira had never felt so much like he’d earned it, “I’m surprised this wasn’t your plan from the start.”

An arrogant part of Akira - the part of him that was Arsène - suspected that maybe it had been. But that didn’t matter. He smiled, looked at the sky: he could see a glimmer just beyond clouds. Just barely, Akira could imagine that other part of him reaching out, snatching it from the sky.

“Then it’s settled - no turning back now. The Phantom Thieves are just getting started.”


End file.
